Where the Grass Never Grows
by sweettea1
Summary: Asher is Max's only partner in the Wasteland, unwanted and unwelcome. He did not need luggage to carry around - another responsibility to worry about. Asher, however, proves she is more than a liability; and, to Max's chagrin, he finds himself loving her company. Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps she would be the one to finally push him over the edge.
1. Chapter 1: Unlikely Allies

**Author's Note:** So the plot bunnies have returned, ravenous as ever. This time, they have drawn inspiration from _Mad Max: Fury Road_ and created this idea. It is set in the same universe as _Fury Road_ , but it begins before the film and gradually builds to those events. Nothing sudden, but gradual. There is a connection I wish to build here between these characters (whom you are about to meet); and, since this is the Wasteland and we are dealing with Max, friendship and trust won't be an immediate given. Have patience, and you shall see...

A huge thank you to anyone who has decided to give my story a chance, and I promise to give you a wild ride. Enjoy!

 ** _Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to._**

* * *

 **Chapter I:**

 **Unlikely Allies**

" _You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough." –Frank Crane_

* * *

In the Wasteland, Asher avoided all other life. She did not create acquaintances, she did not nurture friendships and she certainly did not allow her feelings to dictate her actions. Those were mistakes that would kill her. She could trust no one but herself. The world had become a greedy, desperate place that would backstab anyone who would relax for even a second. It was a sad reality, but Asher had stop mourning what was lost. She had to focus on surviving— _only_ on surviving.

Therefore, when she crested the sandy slope she had been ascending and saw the armored muscle car parked on the flat top, she stopped dead in her tracks. Through her tinted goggles, she surveyed the layout of the area, one eye locked on the vehicle. No one was nearby; the car was seemingly abandoned.

 _Abandoned_. She laughed inwardly. _No one leaves a beauty like this unless they're out of gasoline and have no other way to haul it with them._

She ran her hand along the side of her boot, grasping the hilt of her dagger and removing it from its sheath. The blade was dull, but its reflective surface refracted the blazing sun's bright rays with utter brilliance. She kept the weapon partly concealed, the steel hidden behind her thigh as she sauntered toward the muscle car. When she reached the back bumper, she placed a hand on the trunk. The metal was hot, its heat radiating through her gloves. She retracted her appendage.

Slowly, she approached the passenger door. She reached her free palm toward the handle, prepared to open it and inspect its interior. Her fingers barely brushed the steaming handle when, in a flash of color and movement, the passenger door flew open and knocked her off her feet.

Asher rolled, lay sprawled on the ground for a half-second, then sprung upwards to challenge the new threat. A great force slammed into her and plowed her into the sand, the heavy weight compressing her ribs. She grimaced, slashed upwards with her armed hand and felt her blade come into contact with cloth—heard the rip of fabric as her blunt blade hacked at its unidentified target. There was a grunt—gruff, easily male—and the weight shifted to her left side. She followed through with her momentum and pushed her body upwards, throwing the being off-kilter. She collapsed onto a body, knee ramming into the sternum of a broad chest and her dagger poised centimeters above the head of her attacker.

For those precious few moments of stillness, Asher seized the opportunity to study her opponent. The face was sharply angled, with a heavy brow, a strong jawline and a straight nose. Streaks of grime added contrast to his definite features, while creases along his forehead and dark circles under his eyes hinted at weeks of unrest. His grey gaze was intent and alert, and Asher could not discern whether the man was acutely aware or borderline insane.

She was not willing to take risks today.

Jaw clenched and mind set, she raised her dagger a fraction and prepared to drive the weapon into his pretty grey eyeball; and, in that split-second of an opening, he struck. A powerful blow met her throat, and Asher suddenly could not inhale or exhale. Panic settled; she had made a fatal misconception.

She attempted to follow through with her original plan and plant the dagger into her target. He dodged, though, swiveling his head away. The dagger sunk into the ground, sand spraying into the air. A fist to her ribs weakened her; a braced forearm across the face forced her to flop onto her back beside her attacker. The sand warm and surprisingly soft. Since when had the sand become so luxurious?

Asher's lungs struggled to recover lost oxygen, her windpipe shuddering with every breath. The discomfort did not improve when she felt the dull edge of a blade against her working throat. She pried her eyes open—she had not realized she had closed them—and stared evenly at the man looming over her, the sun blocked by his head. Ironically, Asher wanted to laugh, for she just now noticed the long, matted locks that hung around the man's face. With death a slash away, her final thoughts were centered on the unkempt style of her killer.

A minute passed without much change. They both were regaining control of their breathing, slow and measured—cautious. Asher had expected death by now. How long would he make her wait?

 _You have an opportunity here, Ash_ , her inner voice practically sang. Asher grinned, relieved to know her killer could not see her expression due to the scarf wrapped around her head and the lower half of her face.

"I have water on me, you know," she rasped. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use. She never had anyone to talk to. "I'll share if you let me off. Want me to show you proof?"

She slipped a hand under the small of back, reaching. The blade dug into her flesh, threatening to delve into her skin if she dared to swallow. If the edge had been sharper, it probably would have.

"I never wanted to hurt nobody," she said. The dagger made speaking uncomfortable. "I honestly thought the car was scrap."

Her killer grunted. His eyes never wavered from her shielded ones—never looked at the car at its mention. Asher realized he was smarter than his disheveled appearance portrayed. She cursed at the disadvantage.

"Look," she groused. "Do you want the water or not?"

"Why negotiate when I can kill you and take it?"

Deep, tinted with a foreign accent. Interesting.

She smirked beneath her scarf. "'Cause as soon as that blade starts applying to much pressure, I'm gonna pop the cap off the canteen and let the water drain. You're gonna be drivin' for a while to find the next source."

There was a tense pause. Then: "Show me."

Asher unhooked the canteen and slowly dragged it out from beneath her. She waved it in the air, giving her attacker a clear view. He stared at the canteen; then, with his free hand, he reached for it, hand lashing out like a striking viper. Asher jerked it out of his reach, grimacing when the dagger pressed uncomfortably against her throat.

"Let me up, then I'll give."

"Give it to me now, and I'll let you live."

Asher flipped the canteen over and pressed her thumb under the lip of the cap. "That's not our deal, _buddy_. I'm not playing games."

Another moment of contemplation passed before the stranger finally withdrew, rising to his feet. He kept the dagger raised, wary as he watched Asher regain her footing. She mimicked the action, glaring at him behind her tinted goggles. Once they were facing each other, standing properly like a civilized people—minus the dagger between them—the man extended a hand and beckoned for the canteen. Asher tossed the aforementioned object toward him, reluctant, but willing to live another day. He caught it easily and swiftly popped open the top and guzzled down the liquid.

Asher frowned, unsatisfied. She dared to take a step forward. "I said share, not steal my entire supply," she bit. He stopped after that spiteful, warning comment, lowering the canteen from his lips, a drop of water rolling down his chin. He closed the cap and passed the canteen back to her. She caught it, shook it. A shallow slosh of water answered her. She knew where her next destination should be—if she could make it that far.

She nodded to her dagger. "Can I have that back?"

He stared at her. He motioned behind her: A silent order for her to backup. She huffed, latching the canteen back into its retainer before gliding backwards. After at least ten paces, the man held his hand up in a 'stop' gesture. He proceeded to toss the blunt dagger, the weapon landing two paces in front, spinning mildly in the loose sand.

He jerked his head in a random direction. "I'm lettin' you off. Now get going."

Asher probably should have walked away. She was not one for company, especially if that company had been willing to kill her and take her supplies. She could easily leave him to die, rotting in his muscle car and suffering through the extreme heat of the Wasteland. Gladly, she would allow fate to do whatever it pleased with the man. Yet, something stopped her. Curiosity, she thinks.

 _Curiosity killed the cat_ , a buried memory recited to her. She could not remember the second half of the phrase. Her childhood was a patchy mess.

"You outa gasoline?" she asked, watching the stranger with one eye and admiring the muscle car with the other.

He grunted.

She shook her head. "Well, if you're lookin' for a full tank, I know of a little place. Better chances than Gas Town, or random luck—if you believe in such a thing."

He did not speak a word. He did not move an inch.

Asher released an exasperated sigh. "Fine. You're on your own," she remarked, scooping her dagger out of the sand and slipping it back into its sheath. She trekked back down the slope, fully intending to reach the base and simply circle around the swell of land to continue on her forward journey. She half-expected the man to stop her and indulge upon her deal; however, instead, she heard a car door slam shut and an engine roar to life. She whirled around and watched the muscle car's wheels rotate wildly before propelling the vehicle forward and down the slope.

She snorted. _Never actually needed you, anyway._

Following the vehicle's course—for it had taken off in her original direction—she trudged onward, depleted of precious water resources and no faster way of travel. Another day in the place she called home.

* * *

Asher was still walking steadily forward when night descended. She had pulled the goggles away from her eyes and onto her forehead, and she had loosened the scarf wound around her head, allowing the cool evening air to brush over her sweaty skin. Miles of open land stretched beyond her line of sight, seemingly leading to the edge of the world, as if she would fall into oblivion once she reached the horizon. She knew that theory was lie, though. She had tried far too many times to reach that unknown destination; and each time, she had been met with endless quantities of sand and rocks. If she was fortunate—or unfortunate, depending on the situation and place—she would find a settlement. Otherwise, she was alone—a wandering traveler with no objective but to survive whatever trials the trail may bring.

It was not until she reached a rather large boulder that she finally decided to rest. She leaned against the weather-worn rock and slid to the ground. She unhooked her canteen and took two sips, heart dropping when she finally realized how low her water supply truly was. She had been too afraid to check until now; apparently, she had had a reason to be.

 _You should have never tampered with the car, Ash_ , her inner voice chided. Like it had not been interested in the vehicle, either.

She folded her legs and propped her arms on her thighs, hands clasped together. She stared out into the vast unknown, her eyes betraying her as they created false mirages of people, cars and trucks, and patches of water. She merely blinked them away, unfazed. Those were common occurrences. They were much worse in the daylight.

At some point, she may have slipped into dreamless slumber, for the next time she could clearly distinguish the plain before her, she saw a distant form on the horizon. She blinked, convinced her imagination was frayed once more. But the object did not disappear. It remained, and it was drawing closer.

Asher squinted, features screwed into a worried scowl. Someone—or something—was coming.

She rose to her feet, wrapped the scarf tightly around her head once more and slipped the dagger from its sheath. Granted, she could have ran, or attempted to skirt around the boulder until the roamer had passed. The former was futile, since the speed of the approaching danger hinted at vehicular travel; and the latter was dumb-luck cowardice. She might as well face whatever opponent that may come her way. She was not going to last long with her poor water supply, anyhow. Too much distance to cover to the next refill.

A handful of minutes passed before the vehicle reached her. Asher half-hoped, half-expected the car to whiz past her; however, she was disappointed to notice the vehicle decrease its speed until it came to a gradual halt ten feet away from her. The night was too dark for her to see the interior or how many persons inhabited the car. Its body was familiar, though. A recent memory. A bane to her existence.

It was the muscle car.

She cursed her ludicrous courage. She should have ran when she had the chance.

The driver's door opened, and the man emerged from the car. He stared at her for the longest time, never saying a word, as if he wanted her to understand him telepathically. Too bad for him, she could not read minds. Did he believe her to be some mystical being from a child's fairytale?

"What do ya want, buddy?" she asked, voice tight and scratchy. She was thirsty.

He did not move. He did not answer. He did absolutely _nothing_. Asher hated the situation.

"Are you gonna stand there like an idiot, or you gonna say somethin'?" she drawled. She readjusted her grip on the hilt of her dagger. If Asher had not known how terrible her aim was, she would have thrown the dagger in an attempt to nail him in the forehead. She nearly did anyway, the imaginary target alluring.

He leaned on the door's frame. "You mentioned fuel. Earlier."

She quirked an eyebrow—an impossible task, considering the position of her overly tight goggles. Remembering her proffered deal, she barked a laugh. "Sorry, that offer expired the moment you kicked up sand in my face. You're on your own. You wasted your precious gasoline backtracking to this place." Suddenly, she frowned. She pointed her dagger at him, not caring that he saw she was armed. "How'd you even know I'd be coming this way?"

"I didn't."

She snorted. "You really _are_ an idiot."

He watched her. She could not see his grey eyes clearly, but she could picture the calculating haze that was shadowing them. Finally, in markedly snide words, he asked, "How far are you planning on going?"

Her body tensed. Her upper lip twitched. "Places."

"I asked, 'how far.'"

She exhaled sharply. "Until I get somewhere, or I'm dead in the sand." She glared at him. "You should know that. You knew the moment you practically drained my canteen."

"Yeah, I do know. That's why we're gonna work out a deal."

"Oh are we?"

"You're gonna show me where I can get this gasoline, and I'll take you wherever you need to go."

 _Do you hear that? Wherever you want to go. That's a golden ticket, Ash._ Asher was beginning to detest her inner voice more and more with every accurate point made. Hence, in retaliation, she decided to ignore it.

"I think I would rather let you suffer, even if I have to, too. I'll worry about myself." She turned her back to him—a mistake that the nagging voice in her head would forever berate her for.

Quicker and quieter than Asher thought the stranger possessed, he was behind her and gripping her shoulder. She spun back around, lips curled in a snarl as she held her dagger aloft, prepared to plunge the neglected blade into the man's heart. He never flinched, staring her in the eye unflinchingly. There was a sliver of clarity and of madness in his gaze, warring for dominance. It was different compared to the rare souls Asher had encountered. A frightening factor, for she could not judge what his next move would be.

"Look, I don't want anything from you," Asher snapped, a growl to her tone. "You can keep your freebee ride for another fool. Really, I don't know a fuel source. I lied. I was hoping to travel a distance before making my grand exit. And, like the _idiot_ you are, you fell for it—"

He seized the collar of her jacket, bringing her to her tip-toes as he brought her face-to-face with him. She responded instinctively, pressing the blade of her dagger to his throat. He did not seem to even acknowledge the dagger's presence. The madness in his gaze flared to life.

"Then you better figure something out, because—"

"Because _what_?" she sneered. "What're you gonna do if I don't get in the car? Kill me? Like that's a good threat to me, at the moment."

He paused. Clarity returned. He was contemplating. "So you just gonna lie down and die like a dog?"

She shrugged lightly. "At least I can take control of my own fate. With you, anything could happen—none of them pleasant, I assure you."

He frowned. He let go of her jacket and took a step back. Asher did not relax the slightest bit, the tension still present—still tangible.

"When I get in that car, and you're still standing here," he said, voice low, borderline threatening, "then I'm gonna leave you be. You can walk for miles and miles without seeing a drop of water. Won't be my problem. So you think about that as I walk back over there. You have about five seconds."

He left her standing there as he strode toward his vehicle confidently. He did not glance over his shoulder or slow his pace; he kept walking, determined to follow through with his self-given orders.

Asher was strongly tempted to let him walk to his car, turn around, find her unmoving and drive away. If he lived up to his word—a word Asher could never, ever trust—he would never bother her again. He would leave forever, and she could figure out her own plan and route. If she was careful, hasty and conservative, she could probably last for a time in the Wasteland—hopefully until she found a reliable source of water. And, even if she did not make it that far, at least she could die knowing she had not placed her life in the hands of a stranger who had attempted to kill her hours earlier—along with the fact that that same stranger would be cursed to plow through miles of empty land in search of fuel and supplies. He could suffer the same doom as her. She could accept those terms.

But her inner voice would not have that. It never did learn to shut up.

 _And if he finds fuel? He's gonna be one lucky man, and he ain't gonna come find you again and save you. If you don't go, you're as good as dead. Do you really want that, Ash? Be honest with yourself._

In the safety of her mind, she cursed in every language she knew.

The stranger had just reached the open driver's door when Asher decided to ask a decisive question: "How far can you go with the gasoline you already have?"

He paused, halted his steps. After a handful of seconds, he answered, "About thirty days, maybe thirty-five."

Asher was glad that the stranger had not faced her, for she did not want him to notice the light that entered her eyes. Thirty or thirty-five days was a one-way trip to paradise for her, for she knew of a rich source that would provide her with the materials she would need to survive for quite some time in the Wasteland. She could stock up and resume her lonesome, wayward journey once more. Granted, she would be brushing the thirty-five days mark; but a car ride would be less challenging than walking the distance. Then she would not need this stranger; then, she could be rid of him. She only needed to endure his presence for a short while.

"All right," she said at last. His continued hesitance did not go unnoticed by her, and she realized that he had been giving her some extra time to think the deal over. She could not say whether she appreciated the opportunity or not. A part of her—a bone-chilling feeling in her gut—warned her she was making the wrong decision here. She was making a mistake that was worse than death. It was undeniably daunting.

"All right, what?" he asked. He swiveled his head slightly, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"I'll join you. I may know a place that has some gasoline handy. It'll take all you got to get there, though. And since I haven't been down that way for some time, I can't say the road is too friendly anymore."

He finally turned around. He jerked his head toward the passenger door: A command to hurry up and get in if she was truly committed.

Asher sheathed her dagger and ambled toward the designated door, eyeing the stranger—her temporary partner now—warily before entering the car. He joined her moments later, not saying a word as he fired up the engine.

Asher pointed west. "Start driving," she said. "The sooner we get there, the better—for the both of us."

He grunted half-heartedly, but complied. Soon, Asher began to feel the adrenaline rush of speeding across the terrain in a powerful vehicle, the seats vibrating, the engine rumbling and the sand flying up behind them in a great cloud. It had been a while since she had experienced the sensation, and she was beginning to realize how much she had been missing. _Walking_ suddenly sounded dated.

Still, Asher had to ask herself: What happened to working alone? What happened to no acquaintances, no friends and no close partnerships? Granted, she doubted this stranger could ever become more than that: A stranger. But this was not her way. She had a system; a code. She was breaking a law. She knew this, yet she was proceeding anyway. There was going to be consequences.

She pretended not to notice the sawed-off, double barrel shotgun lying across the stranger's lap.


	2. Chapter 2: Stand Alone, Fight Together

**Author's Note:** So first off, I must say this: _Thank You!_ I wasn't expecting much when I first posted this story, but you guys really proved me wrong. You all are wonderful readers, and I am happy to have you along for the ride (yes, that was intentional phrasing). I won't keep you long with this Author's Note; therefore, that being said, I hope you enjoy the second installment!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them.**_

* * *

 **Chapter II:**

 **Stand Alone, Fight Together**

" _We have an unknown distance yet to run, an unknown river to explore. What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the channel, we know not; what walls ride over the river, we know not. Ah, well! we may conjecture many things." –John Wesley Powell_

* * *

They rode through the night, silent and irritable. Asher never looked at the stranger, keeping her gaze trained on the road and watching for movement from the corner of her eye. Her right hand rested on her knee, ready to reach down and unsheathe her dagger at a moment's notice. Even if this stranger was willing to cooperate for gasoline, she had no doubt that he would kill her if he detected the slightest hint of trickery. Leaving her abandoned in the Wasteland would be too soft and lacking a personal touch. She has known several monsters of the ruined world; this stranger could become one himself.

Why else would he leave the shotgun lying in plain view? Decoration? Hardly.

When daybreak filtered through the windows and permeated her clothing, increasingly warming her skin, she began to feel thirst. It was a terrible, persistent feeling that never faded once it dawned. First, her tongue became dry and resembled a ball of cotton in her mouth. Second, swallowing became difficult. Third, breathing was a nuisance, for the combination of blistering heat and particles of sand and dust would scrape along the back of her throat, creating a raw sensation that would not _go away_. Finally, her focus was undermined, revolving solely around water. Its coolness, how it quenched her parched mouth, its sweet taste despite the lack of flavoring—it was maddening.

She could take a sip from her canteen; however, considering their long journey to her wanted location and few chances to acquire water along the way, she knew she could not give-in to her desires.

 _Watch the road, keep this guy in-check and formulate a plan. You have thirty-five days._ She told herself this—repeated it like a mantra. Despite her compliance, though, the canteen remained forever present, digging into her lower back.

After two hours of driving under the sun's morning rays, Asher decided to test her boundaries. As if the stranger would toss her out now, with the potential promise of gasoline to add a hundred days to his never-ending journey. Whatever was needed to survive, she knew.

"What do you go by?" she pried. She did not glance his way, keeping her routine of watching the endless road and waiting for any sudden movements from the stranger.

"Why do you want to know?" he retorted. He was determined to keep his eyes forward, too.

"Well, if we're gonna be stuck together for thirty days—in the same car, a foot away—I would like to know _who_ I'm stuck with. Nothing formal or complicated. Don't even have to tell me your real name, 'cause I wouldn't mind. I don't want anything personal."

He exhaled audibly. "You have a tendency to talk this much?"

"Just coverin' my bases."

"Well, if you don't want anything personal, then don't ask at all."

Asher narrowed her eyes, half-glaring at the windshield. She drummed her fingers against her kneecap, listening to its rhythmic, dull beat. She shrugged. "Fine, I'll just call you Buddy."

He grunted. Asher took that response as an acceptance.

A good, solid ten minutes passed before Buddy decided to speak for himself. Asher realized it was the first time Buddy had initiated a conversation. He was no less blunt about it, either.

"And what do I refer to you as?"

Asher considered that question. "Spitfire."

He hummed. "How suiting."

"Good. Then you won't forget it."

* * *

Asher could not withstand to wait much longer: At noon, she took a single gulp of water from her canteen. It was as if she were taking a sip of Heaven, the liquid rejuvenating and refreshing. From the corner of her eye, she saw Buddy spare her a glance, fast and fleeting, longing reflecting in his grey orbs. A kindly fellow would have offered him a drink as well; unfortunately for him, Asher was not one of those good people, especially since the man was responsible for her depleted water. He could wait a bit longer before having another swig; that is, if he would not drain the canteen as soon as he received the opportunity. Asher extended the time.

The windows were cracked open, allowing a warm breeze to filter into the car. The roar of the engine could be clearly heard, rumbling and growling, like a feral animal. It seemed too loud, a sound that could be heard for miles around. During her past excursions, she had seen powerful trucks or a couple of motorcycles in the distance; but when she had, she had been sure to drop flat to the ground and lie as still as possible. She had never been close enough to realize how monstrous the vehicles truly were. Now she did, and she could not judge whether she enjoyed the knowledge or not.

 _What're you gonna do? Miraculously silence it?_ Asher ground her teeth together and resisted the urge to curse her inner voice aloud. She did not need Buddy to believe she was insane, speaking to a person who was not there; or worse, have him believe she was disgracing him and his makeshift name.

Not to say he was not just as crazy as she was—maybe more so. Certainly not a comforting thought when he had a shotgun inches away from his reach, undoubtedly primed for a potent, single-shot blow. If a brawl did ensue, reaction time would be crucial. Speed to draw the dagger, reflexes to dodge a close-range shot to the head and smoothness to deliver her own fatal slash. Then, of course, there was the car to worry about, for, undoubtedly, the vehicle would spiral out-of-control during the struggle for dominance. She was not well educated behind the wheel, and the last result she wanted was to drive a powerful, revving muscle car while maneuvering around a dead body.

That is, if she did not falter and acquire a new hole in her head. None of those variables would matter if she failed any of those steps. At least he could not torture her then. There was some comfort.

Asher blinked, grim musings banished from her mind. She chanced a glance at Buddy, searching him, eyes roving up and down his form. He was decently equipped, dressed in clothing that would protect him from the harshest elements of the Wasteland. Asher could spot patches of thick leather protecting various weak points and adding durability to his frame. With grudging recollection, she remembered the harshness of the leather-bound forearm that had struck her. The blow had stung, catching her cheekbone and jaw perfectly. She dared not tamper with the stricken area, for she did not want Buddy to detect any signs of pain or frailty from her; therefore, she scrunched her face and twisted her mouth into different expressions. The side of her face was tight and sore—probably swollen, maybe bruised. She was positive nothing was broken. She would have felt those effects much earlier, she knew.

 _Surely he has extra. You could be just as armored and protected._ Asher almost found it amusing how her inner voice had changed motives from hitching a ride to looting her temporary partner. Almost. Secretly, however, she was wondering what he kept stashed in his prized car. He did not strike Asher as a man new to the survival methods of the Wasteland. Food, water, gear to endure the temperamental weather, gasoline if you had a vehicle to fuel—those were important elements, and very influential when negotiating for your life. Asher's own trade—water for another day of life—was a good example. In hindsight, it was probably not ideal, considering her current, delicate situation; however, she could proudly claim she was still breathing, cruising at seventy miles-per-hour toward a settlement rich with the supplies she would need.

The bigger picture said she was in a favorable position. The shotgun in Buddy's lap told her she was screwed—that the bigger picture was an image, a mirage in the extreme heat. The Wasteland always found a way to win. There would always be strings holding her back.

She exhaled audibly through her nose, leaning back and raising a leg to put her foot on the dashboard.

She did not miss the sideways glance Buddy gave her.

"Off," he ordered, harsh, voice rough from lack of use. Seems he usually traveled alone, too. That, or he was thirsty. Asher hoped for the latter.

Of course, Asher was well aware of the meaning behind the command. But Buddy was not an amiable man; and, as a result, Asher had little respect for him. She may have agreed to accompany him and show him a path to a fuel source, but she mostly did so to acquire her own personal gain. If he did not like this treatment, he should have never guzzled all of her water. Asher did not respect greed. Theft, maybe—she had done plenty of that during her lifetime. It was also in the description of survival in the Wasteland. Greed was different—sinful, ungrateful, a glutton that was never satisfied. It was an attribute that was woven into the land, yet Asher could never ignore its severity like other unfavorable qualities.

That was Buddy's first mistake, and Asher had no intention of forgetting it.

She lolled her head to one side, looking at Buddy directly for the first time since she entered the muscle car. "I'm sorry, what?" she drawled. She straightened her propped leg, her heel resting on the top of the dashboard.

The corners of his lips dropped. His gaze darted in her direction. A dangerous glint entered his grey orbs. "You know what I mean."

"No, really," she defended, feigning an affronted attitude. Now her other foot was suspended, the hilt of her dagger shining in the afternoon sunlight. "Enlighten me."

"Feet. Off the dash."

"Why? Does it bother you?"

"Now."

Asher pursed her lips, analyzed his expression. Irritation was quickly dawning, evident in the twist of his lips and the threatening shine in his eyes. His grip had noticeably tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning a stark white.

She canted her head, weighed her options. She answered, "No."

Asher knew Buddy was fast—quicker than she would have given him credit for. Truly, it was blur when his right hand left the wheel, clasped the double barrel of the shotgun and swung it toward her. She had no time to react appropriately before the handle of the shotgun cracked across her shins, rattling the underlying bone and sending a rippling shock arcing through her skin. She howled in pain, drawing her legs down from their perch and pulling them close to her body.

With an angry growl, she snatched her dagger and pointed its blunt tip toward Buddy—only to find he had spun the shotgun around and was now aiming the double barrel at her forehead. He did not tear his eyes from the road, keeping his left hand steady as he continued to race across the Wasteland. Asher knew he was watching her intently, though—from the corner of his eye, as she had been the entire duration of the journey.

"You—"

"Hurt, didn't it?"

Her upper lip twitched, a snarl forming. "Yeah, it did. Satisfied?"

He thought for a few moments. The shotgun never lowered. "Put the weapon away."

She barked a laugh. "With a shotgun leveled at my head? You first, Buddy."

"Put it away, _now_."

"Or what? You gonna shoot my brains out? You need me to get to the gasoline you want."

He sighed, his arm relaxing fractionally. "You're right."

Asher could not stop the smug smile that tugged at her lips.

"Don't need your leg, though." The shotgun dropped, but not how Asher had imagined—or wanted. The double barrel pressed firmly against her left knee, and Buddy's forefinger hovered over the trigger. Asher's heart nearly leapt out of her chest, and she swiveled her leg away from the immediate danger. The shotgun never wavered from its target, following the sharp movement—though, perhaps a bit higher now, threatening to obliterate her thigh.

Asher raised her hands in surrender, holding the dagger limply. "Okay, okay! You win," she said. Grudgingly and slowly, she sheathed her dagger, resuming her original posture once the dagger was safely stowed away. "Care to point the shotgun elsewhere?"

"If you pull that stunt again, I won't hesitate. Are we clear?"

She glowered. "Whatever you say, _Buddy_."

The shotgun was replaced in Buddy's lap, and the barrier reformed between them. They did not speak again for the next several hours. Asher kept her feet flat on the floor.

* * *

Nighttime befell them, heavy and bleak. Asher felt a weariness seeping into her bones and sinking into her mind. Her eyelids drooped, but never closed, persistent as they stared at the sea of sand stretched out before the muscle car. She had no intention of falling asleep, especially with no-nonsense Buddy sitting across from her. Granted, she may have purposely antagonized him earlier; and, consequently, she had been asking for punishment. Still, she did not believe for a moment that he would not riddle her with bullets as soon as she turned away from him. All it took was an urge, an unknown and spontaneous anger to rile him up. She would not play the part of a fool and give him a perfect opportunity.

But then the car came to a gradual halt, parking behind a particularly high dune. The engine quieted, and the air was filled with a suffocating silence that made Asher feel woozy—or maybe she was merely craving a drink. It was difficult to discern. Either way, she did not wait too long to break the perpetual peace.

"Why are we stopping?"

Buddy grunted, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms.

Asher scowled. "I don't speak savage," she snipped.

He turned his head, popped his neck. "Resting," he said at last.

She cocked an eyebrow. Then, the words sinking in, she shook her head and huffed indignantly. "You really think I'm gonna go to sleep with you around?"

"Never asked you to, nor did I say anything 'bout sleeping."

"So, what? We're just gonna sit here?"

"You're more than welcome to take a stroll. Better be back before I'm ready to leave."

She grumbled under her breath, exiting the vehicle and purposely slamming the door behind her. Her legs were stiff from the lack of use, and her shins still ached from the harsh blow they had received. She was sure to kick the front tire as she passed by the front of the vehicle. A glance at the windshield revealed that Buddy was indifferent to the spiteful action.

 _Well aren't you social, Ash. Please, piss him off more._

"You wanted to loot him," she mumbled to herself, unable to retain her hatred toward the mocking voice ringing in her mind. "Bother me when you have a solid base to stand on."

That shut it up.

She climbed the dune, boots and gloved hands burying into the shifting sand to keep her somewhat stabilized. She could feel Buddy's eyes boring holes into her back, watching her traverse the dune. If the terrain had been made of a more solid material, she would have added a bit more flourish to her movements, be a show-off; but, since it was loose sand instead, she opted to keep her ascent swift and neat.

She eventually reached the top, and she planted her feet into more compact sand. She squared her shoulders and placed her hands on her hips, squinting her eyes as she scouted the area ahead of them. Left to right, she scanned with practiced ease, fighting to keep the mirages at bay. Nothing drew her attention more than the glimmer of orange light floating amongst the roiling sand. She blinked, but the light did not disappear. She scrubbed at her eyes, looked again. It remained, constant and flickering faintly—like figures moving in front of it. An encampment?

Curiosity sparked, and she took a step forward. Huge mistake.

Something wrapped around her ankle, tight and biting. She attempted to reverse her actions, but it was too late. The object around her ankle jerked and pulled her leg out from underneath her, sending her sliding down the dune's opposite side. She grunted when she collapsed at the base, limbs instinctively moving to get her back on her feet while her right hand sought her dagger. Her fingertips brushed the dagger's hilt at the same time a pair of hands entangled themselves in the scarf covering her head.

Her head was snapped backwards forcibly. She lost track of the dagger. Slightly panicked and greatly disgruntled, she glared at the face inches above her. Dilated pupils, a grin too wide and missing too many teeth, a hairless head speckled with seemingly decorative bolts and tattoos—not the greatest first impression.

"Hel _lo_ ," he crowed, spittle flying. Asher cringed, disgusted. "And what do we have _here_?"

By this time, Asher had relocated her dagger. She clasped the hilt firmly and ripped it from its sheath. "Nothin' good," she spat back before swinging the dagger around. The blade struck flesh, cutting deeply into muscle and tissue. The being cried out in anguish. She must have injured his leg, for he began to lose his balance and stumble backwards. He never did lose his grip on her, though.

She attempted to scramble to her feet again, but another harsh tug on her scarf had her falling into the sand. The being managed to swivel around to her front, for she soon felt herself being pushed onto her back, a hand splayed onto her face and burrowing her skull into the sand, fingers digging into her shoulder joint and a bare foot driving its heel into the wrist of her armed hand. She grunted in distress, her desperation rising when she felt the dagger slip from her grasp. She fumbled for her dagger, but the being's heel dug deeper, applying steady pressure.

"Well that wasn't very _nice_ ," the being hissed, no longer jovial. The hand on her face was removed, shifting to her shoulder. She felt a sharp discomfort arise—a grinding of bones as they were pulled in the wrong direction. He was going to dislocate her shoulder. "Maybe I should teach you some _manners_."

Asher's free hand shot forward, fingers gripping the side of his head while her thumb jammed into his eye, nail prodding into his tear duct as she pressed his eyeball into his skull. The result was immediate as the being recoiled, lifting his weight and releasing Asher. She seized the opportunity to roll away and hop into a squatting position. She raised one arm defensively while her opposite palm scavenged the sand, searching for her dagger. Where had it gone?

The being lifted his head, a thin trail of blood slipping down his gaunt cheek. He roared at her before surging forward. She scooped up sand and flung it toward his face; however, it did not stun him as effectively as she would have liked, and she quickly dodged to the side. The being faltered, swiped at his eyes and glared at her. She was faster than him—more in harmony with her movements compared to his clumsy attempts. But there was one issue—an advantage that he suddenly received.

He found the dagger.

His hand slowly rose from the sand, fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger in a vicious grip. He glanced at the dull weapon, then back at her, grinning his gap-tooth smile. He pounced.

Asher kept moving backwards, ducking the wild and uncoordinated slashes the being sent her way. He targeted critical points—ribs, thigh, throat—and if he received even the tiniest bit of luck, Asher would find herself bleeding out in the Wasteland, her own dagger dripping with her lifeblood. She would rather die by Buddy's hand, on the wrong side of his shotgun.

After the umpteenth attempt to kill her, the being paused, chest moving up and down in heaving breaths. Asher kept low, thighs burning and heart racing. She was about to rush him and knock him over when he swiped at the ground with his free hand, stirring up sand and grasping something in his palm. Asher barely recognized the 'something' as a rope before he gave a sharp tug. Asher's right leg abandoned her, and she crashed down onto her back.

 _Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me._ Even with death near, her inner voice could not resist proving a point.

A shadow loomed over her. Asher could clearly see the dagger raised high in the air, and her mind struggled to find a new solution. The will to survive was mixed into her adrenaline, and it would not stand to lie there and take a dagger to the heart. Too easy considering the years she had endured.

The dagger was beginning its descent, and Asher was beginning to move—she had yet to formulate _where_ —when a loud _crack_ rang through the air. Warm, wet droplets splashed onto her face, and the being above her crumpled to the side, one of his legs lying across her abdomen. Asher blinked, stunned and amazed not to find the hilt of her dagger protruding from her chest.

Suddenly, the leg disappeared, accompanied by the faint shifting of sand and cloth. A new figure entered her vision, and she reigned in her focus to study the potential new threat. She was met with a proffered hand.

When she did not immediately accept, a gruff voice groused, "I told you I wouldn't wait for you."

Buddy. _Buddy_ saved her life.

 _He must really want that gasoline_ , she mused to herself. She accepted his offered help. He yanked her ungracefully to her feet. She glanced briefly toward the body lying next to him, noting the disfigurement of his head. Close-range shot—what she would have looked like if he had decided to kill her earlier.

She huffed and trudged forward, reclaiming her dagger. Promptly, she cut off the rope secured around her ankle and kicked it away. When she turned around, she found Buddy still staring at her with his unforgiving grey gaze.

She spread her arms to the side. "What? You lookin' for a 'thank you' or something?"

He gestured toward the dead body with his shotgun. "What was that?"

Asher dropped her arms heavily. She sheathed her dagger, then shrugged. "Taking that stroll you suggested. I was caught by surprise."

" _Surprises_ are what get you killed."

"And you think I don't know that? How do you think I lived this long?" She pressed a forearm to his chest and pushed him out of her path. She marched toward the dune, ready to return to the car. "I promise you, it won't happen again."

Making a promise she could not keep—that was her second mistake.

The roar of multiple engines echoed in the distance, hidden amongst the mounds of sifting sand. Asher could have sworn she saw a glimmer of white light racing toward them. Apparently, her would-be killer had friends.

Buddy growled, muttering under his breath. "Go!" he barked, shoving her forward.

Asher withheld the retort she wanted to snap back. Instead, she focused on climbing, scurrying up the dune, slipping too many times for her liking. Buddy was right at her heels, equally as clumsy as his feet and hands sank into the soft terrain. They had barely reached the top when movement drew Asher's attention, and she peered over her shoulder to see three motorcycles arriving at the base of the dune. Two people were astride each motorcycle, creating a total of six enemies chasing them down. Asher did not appreciate those odds.

She clambered to the top, took two long strides and dove over the edge, deciding that rolling down the dune would bring faster results than a carefully controlled descent. Buddy seemed to favor her solution, for he followed after her, ungraceful as he tumbled down alongside her.

She was on her feet faster than him, and she sprinted toward the muscle car parked twenty feet away. She had only covered half of the distance when the motorcycles bore down upon them, rumbling as they plummeted down the dune and sent sand flying into the air. She heard one of the two-wheeled vehicles dart behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder briefly to see where it went. Her eyes went wide when she realized the motorcycle had cut off Buddy, successfully halting his mad dash. The secondary man held a spear; and, if Asher's perception has not failed her, he was prepared to drive it into Buddy.

Automatically, Asher drew her dagger. There was split-second of hesitation afterwards, though, when her mind became divided by two decisions: Help Buddy, or take the car. To most kind-hearted people, it should not even be a consideration; in the Wasteland, however, it was a precarious choice between two risks. She could keep her partner and hope he did not kill her before they reached their destination, or she could attempt an escape now with the car and accept the dangerous variables. It was a choice between two methods of survival, one right and one wrong. She had to be smart.

She looked at Buddy and the spear poised above him. She hated greed, but she did not admire betrayal, either. She knew what she had to do, whether she liked it or not.

She was upon the spear-wielding individual before he could lower his weapon more than a few inches. Her hand gripped his shoulder while she plunged her dagger into his ribs, driving it upwards toward his heart. He cried out, flailing as he struggled with the sudden onrush of pain. Asher removed the blade harshly, consequently tugging the man off his perch. A loud gunshot had her ducking down; and from the corner of her eye, she saw the driver collapse onto the ground, bleeding profusely. One motorcycle down, two more circling them like hungry vultures.

Buddy waved her on as he regained his footing, and she did not hesitate. She resumed her retreat and reached the muscle car in a matter of seconds. Into the passenger seat she went, closing the door just before a motorcyclist could ram into it. Buddy was sliding into the driver's side moments after her, starting the engine and letting it roar to life. He shifted gears, slammed his foot on the gas pedal and sent the vehicle jolting forward. He swerved to the right, avoiding the steep dune altogether and opting for a different path, never lifting his foot even a fraction. The result was a swerving turn that had Asher gripping her seat to keep from being thrown around the interior.

Soon, they were speeding alongside the dune, the motorcycles tailing after them. Asher glanced at the side view mirror.

"Who are they?" she shouted above the guttural hum of the engine.

"Don't know, don't care," he said shortly. Asher did not press further. Scavengers, probably. Those were common. Not necessarily lethal; but when banded together in considerable numbers, they could pose as a nuisance. Such as now.

"Give me a gun," she demanded.

He did not look her—did not consider the request for long. "Won't need it. We'll outrun them."

"Yeah, and use up our gasoline. Don't particularly like that option," she snapped, upper lip twitching with impatience. "You can't shoot and drive. I can take care of the shooting and chase them off."

Dreadful seconds passed as he deliberated. Granted, if he did not answer or, worse, denied her again, she would have snatched away the shotgun resting rightfully in his lap. She had no desire to waste fuel or to be dominated by the scoundrels who were hunting them. Buddy was certainly not going to stop her, and she knew he could not worry about her and his driving simultaneously—not in a demanding chase such as this.

She nearly followed through with her plan when he informed, "Behind me, under my seat."

She followed those orders and discovered a revolver buried in a mess of spare clothes. She tested the weight of the weapon, rivaling the feel of such a powerful weapon in her palms. Much more threatening than her dull dagger.

"Start shooting."

Without hesitance, Asher cranked down the window, twisted her body around and leaned her torso out the open portal. Her left hand was wobbly; therefore, she aimed in the general direction of the pursuing motorcycles and hoped a few bullets found a target. She was not one to dwindle supplies, especially so recklessly; however, she had no plans of being killed and looted by mere scavengers. Besides, this was not her gun. It belonged to Buddy. He could figure out how to find more bullets himself.

Several shots were fired, most missing, but a few managing to take down another motorcycle, leaving it burrowed in the sand. Asher was beginning to focus her attention on the final motorcycle when Buddy gave her the briefest of warnings:

"Turning."

Sure enough, the car turned, nearly sending Asher tumbling out of the window. She flailed, her free hand gripping the door frame, one knee buried into the car seat and the ankle of her opposite leg being held firmly by a large palm. She tried to ignore the weightless feeling she felt as she aimed waveringly at the final motorcycle. She squinted, closed one eye, pulled the trigger—the driver jerked backwards, and the motorcycle went spinning and flipping, engulfed by the darkness of the night.

Hurriedly, she pulled herself back into the car, rolling the window back up. Buddy did not need verbal confirmation of her success, probably having witnessed the final motorcycle fade as the distance between them increased. He released a sigh, but he did not lighten the pressure on the gas pedal.

Asher looked at him pointedly. "They're gone. You can slow down."

"Not until we leave the vicinity."

She shook her head, but did not argue. She was too tired to argue.

After a few minutes, Buddy asked, "You gonna put the gun back?"

Asher stared at the aforementioned weapon still clasped in her hand. She had forgotten about it. She was tempted to say no—to say she wanted to keep it for her own safety. But then she spared a glance at the shotgun in his lap and recalled the image of her attacker, cranium a fragmented mess. She replaced the revolver where she found it, tossing the crumpled clothes on top of it for good measure.

Buddy was silent for a moment. Then he muttered, "Appreciated."

"Don't need your appreciation," she said. "Just don't threaten to blast off my leg again."

He grunted. Asher did not bother to ask what he meant. She really did not want to know.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **K:**_ Thank you very much! Hope you liked Chapter 2, as well.

 ** _WendyBird21:_** You sound just like me: Saw the movie, loved it and instantly had a craving for a fanfiction about it. Then that suddenly blossomed into this story. As for the third person, I find that perspective as my strongest. I have tried first person a couple times (resulting in only one successful attempt) and I find I favor third more. Besides, as you said, third is easier for Mad Max. It gets a bit crazy, and one person can only see so much. Thank you for reviewing!

 ** _reddevil47:_** Their dynamic will become even more chaotic - don't you worry. It should be interesting, to say the least.

 ** _Anonymoose:_** Thank you! Hope to keep you hooked!

 _ **PsychoBeachGirl88:**_ I'm glad! Thank you for the review, and I hope you liked Chapter 2!

 ** _avanns:_** I can't say Asher or Max will enjoy where this is going; but, it's good to hear that you are, haha. Thank you for the review!

 ** _Diamonds and Bones:_** Thanks!

 ** _KatieBees:_** Thank you! That is very kind of you to say, and I'm glad you're enjoying the story thus far! As for Asher, it's good to know she is coming along nicely and fitting into the Mad Max universe - I hope she remains that way. And the action scenes: Well, I have another one for you up above, and hopefully, it pulled through just as well. There will be plenty more to come, no worries.


	3. Chapter 3: Third Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:** So there is a slight alteration to this Chapter, which I am sure you will notice on the first sentence: I have switched to Max's POV. Why? Because I want to explore his viewpoint to the situation alongside Asher. Now, I can't say I am a master at his perspective (Tom Hardy just makes things challenging for me); therefore, I will leave it to you, my dear readers, to judge.

Thank you for all the lovely reviews, and for following and adding this story to your favorites! All of you have absolutely astounded me with your support! You know who you are, and you know you are awesome. So, without further ado, here is Chapter 3!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them.**_

* * *

 **Chapter III:**

 **Third Time's the Charm**

" _Have patience. All things are difficult before they become easy." –Saadi_

* * *

Max was losing time and, more rapidly, patience. Barely two days had passed and he was already beginning to regret every choice he had made during that short span. First, he had picked up a foul-tempered hitchhiker—Spitfire, as she had introduced herself; second, he had made an agreement with Spitfire, completely disregarding her motive to kill him; third, he had let his new companion—a term he used loosely—wander off, only to attract more attention than he wanted; fourth, he had willingly given her the location of a concealed revolver; and fifth, he was _still_ continuing with this souring plan. He was making too many mistakes. He was quite surprised he was still breathing. Then again, he had taken more dangerous risks in the past, but those had retained a sense of disciplined chaos. With this woman, however, everything derailed.

One factor was she tended to test him. He hated it, and he did not let her slink away with a silently won victory. Dubbing him 'Buddy' was annoying, but he had no intention of feeding her his actual name. Instead, he could commit half-heartedly to answering, or not respond and let her concoct her own beliefs. He was not there to satisfy her needs; he was there to get to the fuel he wanted and drop her off wherever she desired—no more than a week's journey, of course.

Then, she had the nerve to grind his tolerance. Perhaps propping her feet on the dash was harmless, but there had been an air about her that struck him wrong. Arrogance, maybe. It worsened when she kept dragging the problem further. This was his car, and he had been the one to propose a deal with her—not the other way around. If their partnership was going to survive, she needed to step down from her throne and come down to his level—be even with him. Hence the blow he had dealt, and the threat he had followed up with. That was one decision he did not regret. At least his point came across crisp and clear.

After that, nothing arose for a long while. Tension, sure, but neither of them had outright exploded with anger. When night came, Max had been determined to let the car sit idle for a time before firing the engine back up and resuming the race to this fuel-laden establishment Spitfire had promised. Sleep had tempted him, but a snide remark from Spitfire had reminded him that he was no longer in the safety of his own company:

"You really think I'm gonna go to sleep with you around?"

Apparently not.

He may have made a mistake, sending her on a nightly stroll. It was either that, or sit with her in the car, awaiting the next handful of words to leave her mouth. At the time, the suggestion had seemed ideal, especially since he had managed to rest his eyes briefly (though not before watching Spitfire kick the tire and glare at him through the windshield). He may have even drifted once or twice, walking the line of alertness and slumber—and, much to his later dismay, he had ultimately succumbed to a light sleep. Only a distant, agonized cry had brought him to full awareness; and, even then, he had to question whether the desperate sound had originated from the real world, or the barest hints of a rising nightmare. It was becoming more difficult to differentiate between the two. Really, the only influence that had sent him into motion was Spitfire's absence from the scene. He had put the pieces together and had decided to investigate. That was a second good decision, he supposed.

Subsequent events had culminated into a squabble and a chase, easily dealt with before him and Spitfire could acquire any damage. Along the way, Spitfire had saved his life, much to his surprise. A repayment for his timely arrival, probably—a debt collected and hastily returned. He did not burden his mind with the possibility that he _owed_ her. Besides, she already had one known advantage over him: She knew where he kept his revolver.

In hindsight, he should have never given her a gun. He probably could have dodged the scavengers and sped out of their territory. He probably could have avoided giving such critical knowledge to someone he trusted so little, if at all. Granted, he gave her some leeway for not taking his car while he was cornered and for returning the revolver instead of putting a bullet in his skull (not that she did not plan to do so at a later, more opportunistic time; he did not put that past her). This was the Wasteland, though. Partnerships were risky, especially when dealing with wandering strangers. It was desperate to follow the belief of fortune that same stranger gave you. It was ridiculously foolish to give the stranger a volatile weapon. In short, he was playing a dangerous game. He had to wonder why he was still involved.

It was a serious debate that warred in his thoughts as he drove. He was only partly focused on the road ahead, and minutely aware of Spitfire's movements. Ironic, considering his concerns.

Sometime during the night, Max eased his foot off the gas pedal, satisfied by the distance he had gained; and, when he did, he saw Spitfire jolt. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and watched her swiftly wipe her eyes then narrow her gaze, focusing intently on the road. Max easily placed the issue: She had been dozing. So much for no sleeping in his presence.

He did not speak a word, but he could not suppress a light snort. Spitfire did not ignore the noise.

She whipped her head in his direction. "What're you laughin' about?" she asked, an almost threatening edge to her voice, as if she dared him to answer her truthfully. He was hardly intimidated.

"You were sleepin'," he stated. No doubts about the matter.

She scoffed. "I told you once, and I'll tell you again, Buddy—"

"You're not gonna sleep with me around." He looked at her briefly. "Heard you the first time."

There was a pause as she eyed him warily, searching him up and down. She nodded. "Yeah. That." She directed her gaze to the barely visible horizon. Finally, she said, "I would expect the same of you. Because honestly: Would you trust me enough to let you rest peacefully?"

He never rested peacefully anymore. She would not make much of a difference. Still, he did not have to tell her that; therefore, he merely responded with an elusive grunt.

"That's what I thought."

He would let her believe what she wanted.

* * *

When dawn peeked over the horizon, Max was met with an interesting setting.

Spitfire had been resolutely quiet throughout the night, a perturbed aura keeping Max from actually checking up on her—not that he necessarily made a habit of doing so. He left her to her own thoughts. He knew she would speak whenever she pleased.

When morning came, though, he found himself sparing the briefest of glances toward the passenger seat, and he noticed two distinct factors: The first was Spitfire's disheveled appearance, her scarf askew, her goggles hanging limply around her neck and the deep discoloration of a bruise forming around her eye socket; the second was her closed eyelids, her propped and tilted head and her steady breathing. She was sleeping rather soundly. The wonders of exhaustion.

Max did not give the situation much thought, initially; not until he realized he had an opportunity. With Spitfire asleep, he could easily move the revolver without her knowledge. He could place it somewhere safe, and he would, once more, be the only one to know of its whereabouts. He could correct at least one of his mistakes.

He put his plans into action and reached around his seat, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the road. He did not pay much heed to Spitfire, merely listening to her rhythmic inhale and exhale. Otherwise, his focus was divided between digging under his seat and keeping a speeding muscle car on a straight path. Unfortunately, he did not notice the flash of movement on his right until it was too late.

Something cold and distinctly metal pressed against his throat. His searching hand ceased movement; and, ironically at that moment, he felt the barrel of the revolver directly beneath his fingertips. Carefully, he curled his fingers around the weapon, spinning it slowly so he could grip the handle.

"Show me your hand," Spitfire hissed. Max could feel her gaze boring holes into the side of his head. He hastily sought the trigger on the revolver and placed his forefinger over it. "Now!"

His hand swung upwards at her command; and she responded just as quickly. The blade dropped from his throat and the hilt of the dagger smashed into his gun-wielding hand. He grunted, took the blow and tried to recover. Spitfire was on top of him again, though, snatching the revolver from his loosened grip and holding it out of his reach. Max placed a hand on his shotgun, but he did not get much further before he felt the revolver's barrel pressed against his temple.

"You touch the trigger, and I'll put a bullet in your head," she growled. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The dagger was still unsheathed, held aloft and prepared to strike if the revolver failed to finish the job. He made special note of her white-knuckled grip. His gaze drifted to her unlidded hazel eyes. They were wide and alert, steely with rage and wild with panic. If Max was reading the situation correctly, he had thrown her off-guard—perhaps frightened her a little. Most of all, though, she was probably tired and unfocused.

Her formerly slow breathing came in quick gasps now, her shifting shoulders clear indicators. She adjusted in her seat, twisting her body to face him more fully and push the gun's barrel more prominently against his skull.

Max watched the road again. "I wasn't planning on shooting you," he said truthfully.

"Then what were you _planning_ on?" she demanded. "Waving it around just to scare me?"

"No."

"Then what?"  
He sighed. This was going nowhere. "I was movin' it."

She scoffed. "Really?" she drawled. Then, more serious, she spat, "How _stupid_ do you think I am?"

"I have a double barrel shotgun right in front of me," he retorted bitterly. "If I wanted to shoot you, I would've used it rather than waste my time with that." His eyes darted in the revolver's direction for emphasis. "Now, are you gonna calm down and put the gun away, or make more threats?"

She pursed her lips. Her gaze dropped briefly to the shotgun, then shot up to stare at him. She blew out a rough sigh before retracting the gun from his head.

Max's muscles released their coiled tension, but he never quite relaxed. After a few minutes of silence, he extended a hand toward her. She stared blankly at his open palm.

"The gun," he supplied.

Her grip tightened on the revolver. She shook her head. "I'm putting it back behind your seat. We don't move it." She paused briefly. Then, sheathing her dagger, she said, "Look. I don't trust you, and you don't trust me. We made that clear on very many occasions. However, if we're gonna make it to our destination in one piece, we're gonna have to settle a few things."

He pulled his hand back. He grunted lightly, signaling he was listening.

"If you have a gun, then I want one, too. Just one, and this revolver will do just fine. If you don't like it, then think of it this way: When we were pinned by those scavengers, you couldn't worry about driving and shooting wildly behind you. I could, though; and I got the job done." She lifted the revolver a little higher. Max noted she kept her finger away from the trigger. "With this, I can be a bit more useful. Better than swatting the air with my dagger and hoping I hit somethin'."

Max remained silent for a handful of minutes, merely studying the endless track of sand spread out before them. His mind was like a balancing scale, shifting from one option to the other, judging which one would get him further in his ceaseless journey. He did not like the idea of giving Spitfire a second weapon to possibly use against him; however, he doubted she would settle for any other terms than her own. She may speak with the sway of reason, but beneath her words, he knew she was vying for an advantage. He knew because he would do the exact same thing.

At last, he jerked a nod. "Fine," he said. "But we keep it in the same place, and we don't draw it unless we have to."

She mimicked his nod. "Agreed."

Without further debate, she pitched the weapon back to its usual spot. She settled back into her seat, reclining against the worn cushion. He waited for her to add something else, not daring to encourage her to create more compromises. Sharing his revolver was leaping over every precaution he had; he did not need to increase that distance.

She seemed to read his thoughts, though, for she continued with her terms—or perhaps it was an advisement this time around: "Also, with our poor condition, we're gonna have to make a stop. We have little water and no food—that I'm aware of."

He grunted. "You don't have to tell me that."

She shot him a glare. "Good. Then you should know a place. I'll let you handle it."

That got Max thinking. He asked, "Do you even know how to get to the place we're going?"

The pause felt too long. "'Course I do. It's a pretty straightforward path to the west. Hard to miss, too. The people there aren't afraid of being noticed."

"So all you know is west?"

"Like I said, it's been a while."

"In other words, these friends of yours could be dead and gone when we arrive."

She whipped her head toward him and pointed a finger at him. Her hazel eyes glinted with ferocity. "First off, they're not my friends. I just know a guy that owes me a few favors, and you're lucky I'm using one of them for your precious gasoline. Second, they'll be there, I promise you. Takes a lot more than a little shove to knock them off their pedestal. What we need to worry about is the road to get there. Your hunk of metal isn't exactly stealthy."

"No," he admitted, "but it makes for a quicker getaway."

She barked a laugh. "Yeah," she said. "I guess you could say that."

Max did not miss the familiarity that entered her tone; he chose to ignore it, though. Rather, he probed, "Anything else?"

She shook her head. "Not yet."

He sighed. _Yet_. For some reason, he did not believe she was still considering the matter; she only wanted to test him. The smirk that tipped the corner of her lips confirmed his suspicions. It seems she would always find a way to pester him.

* * *

"You should sleep."

Those were the first words to come out of Spitfire's mouth since their disagreement that morning. It was dusk now, the sun dipping below the horizon and creating a warm, orange display to combat the descending royal blue of the night. Some would probably deem it a gorgeous sunset; Max viewed it as the beginning of a problem. For three nights now, Spitfire had managed to surprise him in some way. He hated surprises as much as he hated her resentful humor.

"No."

Spitfire rolled her head slowly in his direction, eyebrow quirked. "You've been drivin' for a while now. Won't be very helpful if you crash the car out of sleep deprivation."

"You're one to talk."

"Yeah, well." She shrugged, rubbing her forehead. "I may have dozed once or twice. I probably snagged an hour or so."

He huffed. "Light sleeper?"

"Have to be."

He kept driving, not decreasing his speed—not quite convinced to take a break. They were still on open land, easily visible to any enemy for miles around. Sure, the cover of night might help them; but Max had already taken too many risks in too short of a time. All he needed was to be spotted and captured simply because he closed his eyes for too long. Then there was Spitfire, sporting a dagger and now a revolver. Compromises did not mean he could trust her.

The sun had completely vanished when Spitfire said, "All right. I have something to add."

He looked at her briefly. It was amazing how she always sounded mischievous whenever she began a conversation. He grunted, urging her to continue.

"We don't kill each other while we sleep."

Max could not decide whether she was serious or trying to befuddle him. "That's your proposition?" he asked dryly.

"Got a better one?"

"Yeah, I keep driving and ignore you."

"As lovely as that alternative sounds," she drawled, equally as unimpressed, "I like mine better."

"Thought we didn't trust each other."

"We don't," she confirmed. "But as much as it pains us both, we're partners, and we have to last thirty days. Neither of us can keep going without some sleep. I sure didn't like passing out in front of you, and I really didn't like you trying to sneak the revolver out from under my nose. But I'm alive, so I guess that's something. I can return the favor."

Max snorted. "How thoughtful of you."

"Furthermore, I'll keep watch. I won't boast and say I can drive, 'cause I've never been behind the wheel before. Only watched others." She shrugged, as if brushing off the subject. "So do you want to take up the offer or not? I'll be generous and give you all the time you like."

Max did not give an immediate answer. He was content to stay silent and reject the proposal. The minutes seemed to tick by more slowly, though, as if purposely giving him more time to mull it over. His eyes scanned the area, sweeping from left to right and back again. There were no obstructions, no enemies and no end to the road. Just sand and too much land to cover. Despite his wishes, he knew Spitfire was not wrong: He would have to rest at some point. Might as well do it now while they had some loose form of agreement.

He steadily let off the gas and applied the brakes, coming to a gradual halt. He shut off the engine and let the eerie quiet of the Wasteland seep into the car. His hands slipped off the wheel, and he crossed his arms over his chest. Neither he nor Spitfire said a word. She only stared out the window, fingers drumming on her knee as she waited for any possible trouble—or waited for him to give her a chance.

Before his eyelids slid closed, he curled a hand around the handle of his shotgun.

* * *

 _Max?_

 _Max? Where are you?_

 _Max, why didn't you save us?_

 _Why didn't you turn around?_

 _Max!_

 _You could've helped us!_

 _Please save us!_

 _MAX!_

He woke up. Someone else was in the car with him; someone had a hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from the foreign presence and hefted his shotgun, pointing the double barrel in the general direction of the offender. Several tense moments passed before he finally began to process the real world and forget the fictional. He was in his car, driving blindly west and accompanied by a woman dubbed Spitfire—whom he was aiming at.

Hints of shock were splayed on Spitfire features, her hazel eyes staring down the barrel of the shotgun before lifting to meet his gaze. She raised her eyebrows mildly, leaning away from the shotgun and pulling her appendage away from him—the hand on his shoulder.

"You were dreaming," she said calmly, her lips forming a frown. "Seemed pretty bad, so I was just wakin' you up. No guns or daggers involved."

He blinked at her. Then, swiftly, he lowered the shotgun and dropped it into his lap. He narrowed his eyes and stared out the windshield. The sky was still dark, so he had not slept for long. Really, he would not be surprised if he only garnered a few minutes. Either way, he was not going back to sleep. He started the engine and promptly stepped on the gas. The muscle car revved and sped forward, cutting through the darkness and continuing its endless quest toward fuel.

Spitfire did not say anything initially. She waited. She wanted him to speak first. He refused. She seemed to realize this soon enough; or she merely did not have the patience to wait.

"You got about an hour in."

He grunted.

She pursed her lips. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No." She had to be crazy if she believed he would tell her anything. She did not have a right to know. Like she would understand.

She was never one to leave things be, though. "You know, we've all made mistakes, Buddy."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Well maybe you need to hear it."

"Stop talking."

"Not while you're driving like a maniac."

"You wanna get to this place or not?"

"Yeah, in one piece. You don't know what you'll run into at this pace. Now slow down."

"I don't take orders from you."

Her hands clenched into fists, and she glared at him. Finally, she bit, "I'm pretty sure Jessie wouldn't want your death to be crashing and burning in your own car."

His foot slammed on the brakes, successfully sending them into a lurching stop. Spitfire grunted as she collapsed against the dashboard, wincing lightly as she straightened from her hunched position. He did not fail to notice her busted lip, but he could not bring himself to care.

"Get out," he demanded.

She swiped at her bloody lip with the back of her hand, studying the bright crimson before staring defiantly at him. She did not budge from her seat, her free hand hovering dangerously near the hilt of her dagger. "And I don't take orders from _you_ ," she growled.

He was out of the car in a flash, marching around the front bumper and approaching the passenger door. He tugged it open, reached inside, grabbed the front of Spitfire's jacket and yanked her out. She clawed at his arms in retaliation, but her gloved hands could not break through the leather that covered his forearms. He shoved her unforgivingly against the side of the car and glowered down at her. She returned the look, lips pulled back in a snarl, threatened and ready to fight.

They remained like this, staring and daring the other to strike first—either verbally or physically. Max's own ire bubbled within him, kindled by Spitfire's words. Using Jessie's name as a weapon was unacceptable—a disgrace he was not going to take from _her_. She can push her boundaries, she can place herself into danger, she can snap and bark and growl at him all she likes—he would be free of it once they reached their shared goal. Now, however, she overstepping her limits— _his_ limits. She thought herself invincible. She thought she could say whatever she pleased without consequence. She believed he would merely take it and either listen or ignore her—and he had, up until now. This was the point where it stopped. He was going to draw the line.

"You say that name again, and I will leave you out here with nothing. No water, no weapons— _nothing_. And don't think I'm bluffing, because I'll do it in a heartbeat, and I won't regret a thing. Are we clear?"

She narrowed her eyes. She made no indication she understood. He pushed her further into the car, his knuckles digging into her collar bone.

"Are. We. Clear?"

"Yes," she gritted through clenched teeth.

He let her go and walked away, returning to the driver's side. He swiftly sat down and replaced his shotgun in his lap. Spitfire followed soon after, sliding into the passenger's seat and crossing her arms over her chest.

He did not apologize; neither did she. They sat together in angry silence, not once glancing at each other. All conversation withered and died—shriveled, like everything else in the Wasteland. Max realized it was probably for the best. They would not have anything good to say, anyway.

* * *

 **To The Reviewers:**

 _ **KatieBees:**_ Well, I suppose you could say Max sorta snapped in this Chapter - though not without good reason. Besides, Asher likes to test her boundaries, so she is asking for it. The tension will undoubtedly remain, falling and rising whenever those two decide to shift moods. Also, I'm glad you enjoyed the action scene! Actually, I believe that was my favorite segment to write in that Chapter; I always like describing scenes like those, since it is so fast-paced and fluid (the beauty of Mad Max). Anyway, thank you so much for the review, and I hope you liked Chapter 3!

 _ **avanns:**_ What can I say: They are a chaotic pair. We'll see how it unfolds. Hope you enjoyed the anticipated Chapter!

 _ **K:**_ Frankly, I love writing their interactions. It's the tension, probably. I love tension as much as I love action. They go hand-in-hand, I suppose. Thank you for reviewing!

 ** _Abohrition:_** You're wish has been granted... Haha, but seriously, thank you. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far!

 _ **reddevil47:**_ I'm honored that you like Asher's character so much! But right now, I think Max would disagree with you. Strongly. Maybe one day...

 _ **Annybelle:**_ I'm glad you are, and I hope to keep you hooked! As for Asher and Max...we're gonna fall back on the quote that inspired this Chapter: Have patience, for they will encounter many trials.

 ** _Farbeyondthegrave:_** Considering the nature of the film, I have a lot to live up to. Nevertheless, I am glad you like the story so much.

 _ **AnastasiaNoelle:**_ We will use the term 'get along' very loosely. They probably just tolerate each other right now, haha. And thank _you_ for being a reader!

 _ **MaggieMcCartney:**_ Thank you! Hope you liked the new installment.

 ** _Alya Kihaku:_** Thank you, and I will do my absolute best!


	4. Chapter 4: The Chaos Theory

**Author's Note:** So on to Chapter 4 we go. Still Max's POV, but we will get back to Asher in the next Chapter for obvious reasons (yes, I am foreshadowing, and I am subtly daring you not to skip to the end of the Chapter) Plus, action. Because we all know it would not be a _Mad Max_ story without it. Thank you all for the positive feedback you gave me for the previous Chapter (and especially for telling me about my performance with Max's character)! You all are too kind to me.

On that note, I won't keep you any longer. Enjoy!

 ** _Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them._**

* * *

 **Chapter IV:**

 **The Chaos Theory**

" _When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle." –Edmund Burke_

* * *

The sun had fully broken away from the horizon when Max saw the billows of sand rising from the ground, too distant to identify the cause but close enough to be alarming. He leaned forward, forearms resting on top of the steering wheel and fingers laced together. He squinted against the glare of the morning sun, watching the small dust cloud as it drifted over the land and threatened to cross paths with his muscle car within a handful of minutes. It was moving too fast and its shape was too peculiar to be a miniature whirlwind; and the possibility of it being a mirage was eliminated by Spitfire's acknowledgement of the oddity.

"Trouble?" she asked, nodding in the general direction of the disturbance. It was the first word she had spoken to him in hours, and the hoarseness of her voice gave evidence to the fact.

He hummed, leaning back in his seat. "Possibly two or three vehicles."

"Heavy-duty?"

"Bigger than the motorcycles we dealt with."

She was silent for a long time. Finally, she mumbled, "Well, I don't like the sound of that. Think they already spotted us?"

"Seems likely."

She nodded—stiffly, but sternly, as if she expected such an answer. Not that the truth was well hidden, with the proof directly ahead of them. Besides, coincidences were a rarity in the Wasteland. Whenever trouble arose, it was usually a blunt occurrence. All that mattered was figuring out how to handle the situation—a step Max was currently undertaking.

Typically, driving in the opposite direction with as much speed as possible was the best chance of escape, especially if the getaway car had a lot of power and gasoline to spare. His muscle car had the first quality, but the second was lacking terribly. Backtracking would be a waste, and attempting to take a longer route around the threat—if that was possible—would be expending his fuel. Spitfire said she needed every ounce he had to reach her source; they could not afford to deter greatly from their straightforward path.

Consequently, that left them with one option: Take the enemy head-on. Max did not particularly like the idea, since he did not know how many people were composing this group. He and Spitfire could not fight armed brutes, especially in large numbers. Bullets may work, but Max hated to deplete ammunition with thirty-two days remaining. Water and food reduction was a serious loss; no ammunition was a death sentence.

A risk. The whole ordeal was a complete and utter risk. What other choice did they have, though?

"Get your gun," he commanded, glancing sharply at Spitfire. She returned the stare, stunned momentarily before a grim expression settled onto her features. She reached behind his seat and withdrew the revolver, checking the bullet count.

"Not a lot to go on," she commented absently. If Max was not so concerned with how the confrontation would play out, he could have sworn he heard regret in her tone. Probably just his imagination. Spitfire did not seem to be one who regrets her actions much—or anything, really.

"It'll be enough," he said. "Now follow my lead."

"I believe," she droned dryly, "that requires trust. You claimin' we have that?"

His gaze left the road briefly to meet her hazel one. Anything but trust passed between them in that moment, and he knew it would be foolish to depend upon Spitfire to do anything for him. They were hardly on good terms—not that they ever had been to begin with—and he doubted Spitfire was overly willing to cooperate with him. He knew she would, though. With numerous threats on the horizon, a blunt dagger and a revolver with little ammunition, she could only hold her own for so long. She needed him, and he would only help if she committed wholeheartedly to his plan.

"No," he answered honestly, "but if you want to survive, I think you better listen to me."

Her upper lip twitched, and she exhaled heavily through her nose. She was, undoubtedly, realizing the same reality as he had. Finally, she said, "Then you better not get me killed." She directed her gaze forward. "Whatever nightmares you have now will be nothing compared to me."

He blinked, ignoring the whispers in the back of his mind. He huffed, affronted. "Tryin' to scare me?"

"That's child's play," she scoffed. "I'm just givin' you some motivation."

"Don't need it."

"Too bad—you got it anyway. Now put it to good use."

Even when faced with an unknown enemy, Spitfire never lost her snarky attitude. Max supposed that was a good sign: Laughing at danger, no matter how great or small. Still, he did not enjoy being the victim of her crude humor.

As the distance closed between them and the caravan, Max began to spot some details. The long train of pluming sand had altered, curving until its head was pointed directly toward his muscle car. He was also able to detect at least three vehicles: One bulky pickup truck leading the way and two spike-prickled followers flanking its sides. It was impossible to judge how many occupied each vehicle, but Max expected all of them to be fully packed with desperate raiders. Better to prepare for the worst than to hope of the best. Besides, they could not turn around now. The challenge was accepted; he and Spitfire had to fight if they wanted to live.

Resolute, he switched from the gas pedal to the brakes, bringing his car to a jolting halt.

Spitfire snapped her head in his direction. "What're you doing?"

He hefted his shotgun and inspected the double barrels. "Waiting."

"You're going to risk hand-to-hand combat? We don't know what we're up against! We need to keep driving."

"With your poor aim and our limited fuel, we can't afford to play cat-and-mouse with them."

She narrowed her gaze and glared at him. He remained indifferent, casting her only a sidelong glance. Her lip twitched again. "And if they decide to just crash into us?" she argued.

He shook his head confidently. "They won't. We're valuable cargo to them. If anything, they'll be glad we stopped."

"Oh, so now we're bait?" she mocked bitterly. He merely jerked a nod. She growled, "You're an idiot."

Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her blandly. "You said we needed supplies?" He pointed at the nearing caravan. "If we play this smartly, then we'll have exactly that."

"At the expense that we could die."

"Everything has that problem out here. You should know that by now."

Her silence was answer enough. There would be no changes to tactic; and, even if he wanted a safer option, he knew the decision would be too late. The enemy was close now, and Max could not get away. He had to execute his plan perfectly, and Spitfire had to listen to him. The former did not worry him; the latter gnawed at his nerves. This was the very reason he traveled alone: Partners were too much of a liability, unpredictable and invested with insurmountable trust. Spitfire went beyond those normal measures, though. She was triple the risk with only a vague reward. It was a rotten exchange; but sadly, it was the most promising he had to go on.

Just live through this. See another day. Get closer to the goal. Survive like he always has. The end would work itself out.

It was time. The three vehicles were upon them, forming a semi-circle around his muscle car in an imposing fashion. Max scanned them all, watching for movement and waiting for the first strike. Spitfire remained completely still, acting oblivious to the threat that partly surrounded them; however, Max knew better, imagining how her hazel eyes darted amongst the vehicles and analyzed the scene with the same scrutiny as him. They had both lived in the heart of the Wasteland long enough to know to never underestimate their opponent. That was a fatal mistake.

Activity flared to life around the spiked cars, doors opening and figures flooding onto the scene. Max observed the left and Spitfire dutifully eyed the right. Three men exited the left car, tall and ragged, dressed in ill-fitting clothes that hung limply on their frames. Their faces were hollow, but their eyes were wild and constantly moving. One of them showed signs of ailment, abnormal lumps mottling his neck and right cheek. He was also the only one with a gun.

"I have three, one with a gun—carbine, by the looks of it," he informed, grip tightening on his shotgun as the small band sidled toward his car.

Spitfire unsheathed her dagger. "Two, but no visible firearms," she responded. "Wanna share your grand plan?"

"When they open the doors, start fightin'."

She snorted. "Could've told ya that." She raised her dagger, poised to lash out. "And the big guy in front of us? No one's exited yet."

"We'll deal with that when something does happen."

"Some plan you've got."

He grunted. He was not in the mood to squabble; nor did their predicament allow for one. He watched his group split: Two reaching for his door, the third—the one with the gun—circling to the front of his car, aiming at the windshield. The third man would be able to see them, the windshield lacking the dark tint the side windows possessed. He and Spitfire would be easy targets. They would be dead before they could take down one man.

He shot a glance toward Spitfire. She was focused on the two wily raiders slinking toward her door—lanky like the others, one gripping a hunting knife and the other carrying a club riddled with nails—but he had no doubt that she was mindful of the gun-wielding individual. Lone wanders were always aware—always on-guard.

She proved his point by asking a simple, one-worded question with a very strong meaning behind it: "Now?"

He faced his attackers again. He primed his shotgun. "Now."

One may call it graceful, how synchronized he and Spitfire were as they rammed their doors open as soon as the raiders cracked them open. Behind him, he could hear the distinctive, wet sound of blade meeting blood and flesh, followed by a couple of stunned cries. Spitfire was quick with her dagger; deadly, too, if anyone pissed her off enough. If Max was not so preoccupied with his own set of raiders, he would have wondered how he had survived these past few days with her and her dagger only a foot away.

Max ended the first man easily enough, holding the double barrel of his shotgun to the raider's chest and pulling the trigger a split-second later. He went flying backwards in a frantic display of crimson and flailing limbs. The second man proved to be a tougher challenge, regaining his senses as soon as the shotgun fired. He rushed Max and tackled him to the ground, grappling for the shotgun. Max kept his grip firm, though, and he brought his knee up awkwardly and rammed it into the raider's hip. The raider grimaced and faltered, and Max latched onto the advantage, jerking his head up and smashing his forehead against the raider's nose.

The raider wailed and scrambled away, cupping both hands over his bloody nose. Max rolled onto his knees and raised his shotgun, prepared to take a fatal shot; however, the sand inches in front of him sprayed upwards, followed by the rhythmic roar of gunfire. Now it was his turn to shuffle backwards and away from the new threat, eyes darting toward the source of the stray bullets. His search pointed him toward the man with the carbine. The raider stared at him with crazed, black-rimmed eyes while his lips pulled back into a half-snarl, half-grin, accentuated by the strange bumps that covered one side of his features.

Then his face was hidden as he raised the carbine to fire another round.

Max leapt to his feet and slipped behind his car, hearing the metallic echo of bullets meeting metal—his car taking the damage. Barely three seconds later, the dust stirred next to him as Spitfire took shelter with him. Max spared her a glance, eyes drawn to the dark red splotch on her jacket's sleeve, along her upper arm.

"Shot?" he asked briefly, turning away to poke his head around the car. He could not find the man with the freshly-broken nose, but the carbine-wielding raider was still standing in the open. Max ducked back into cover right before a dozen bullets could shatter his skull.

Beside him, Spitfire grunted and shook her head rapidly. "No. The smug dimwit has a lousy aim. I could shoot better, especially with a carbine in my hands." She laughed lightly at her own joke, oblivious to Max's lack of amusement—or, rather, did not care. "No, I was caught by the knife. Pretty shallow. I didn't return the kindness."

The bumper of his muscle car jerked, bouncing slightly. Someone was clambering onto it. Max's gaze shot upwards just in time to see the bloody-nose raider hopping down off the roof, shiny pistol in hand. Max rolled to the side, but Spitfire stood her ground and confronted the raider, dagger raised and body tense like a coiled snake ready to strike. He decided to leave that particular fight to her—mostly because the carbine-wielder had made Max his prime target.

Max sprinted at an angle, away from the trail of bullets at his heels and toward the raider. At the first break, Max slid to a stop and fired his shotgun. The raider attempted to dodge, but the shot caught his shoulder and tore through his clothing and skin. With a cry, he dropped the carbine, cradling his injury. Max darted forward, not bothering to reload his shotgun; rather, he dropped it and went for the carbine. He got his hand around the barrel of the gun; however, before he could take it into his possession, the former owner had reclaimed the stock and was reaching for the trigger. Max shoved the carbine toward the raider, consequently ramming the stock into the man's gut and making him reel in pain. Max ripped the carbine away, flipped it around, got a good grip and pulled the trigger.

 _Click._ Empty.

God forsake it all.

Irritated, he turned the gun once more and cracked the stock across the stunned raider's temple. The man collapsed heavily on the ground with a satisfying _thud_.

Max peered over his shoulder, unsurprised to see Spitfire stepping over her dead opponent and sporting a new pistol, holstered opposite of her revolver in her jacket's pocket. She glanced down at the fallen carbine-owner, then looked at him, nodding her approval. He shrugged.

Something caught her eye, and she stooped down and removed an object from the sand—the object being his shotgun. She joined him a moment later and shoved the weapon into his free hand. He grunted his appreciation; she hummed in acknowledgement.

They stood side-by-side, staring at the last vehicle—the truck with thick armor, large tires, heavily tinted windows and a ridiculous amount of lights decorating the grille—that had yet to join the fray.

It seemed strange how the truck and its occupants had failed to aid their companions whatsoever, watching them die one-by-one. It was even odder that they were not attacking now, with him and Spitfire in clear display before them. Were they hopeful that he and Spitfire would leave them alone? If they were that afraid, though, why would they not drive away? Did they believe that he and Spitfire would merely ignore more conflict, discouraged to fight any longer? Was it a dare to come closer?

Spitfire seemed to believe the latter, for she marched confidently toward the final vehicle with an air of perturbed doggedness. Max did not openly object, shadowing her as he tossed the carbine to the side and reloaded his shotgun; however, nagging at the back of his mind, like the ghosts that enjoyed tormenting him, he believed the scenario was a trap.

No, not believed—he knew, yet he was walking right into it, anyway. Later, he would convince himself that he was simply scavenging for the best supplies, confident that the leading vehicle would hold such desired riches; however, in truth, he was actually accepting the unspoken challenge of his courage. He was riled up from battle, the adrenaline still rushing; and Spitfire's irate attitude did nothing to stem the flow. He was not ready to settle down.

Spitfire strayed toward the driver's side door, looking over her shoulder briefly and motioning with her dagger toward the passenger door. Max had to wonder when following his lead became following _her_ lead. Still, he accepted the suggestion— _not_ an order, for he would not have followed it—and strode toward the opposite door. He curled his fingers around the door handle, hesitating momentarily before yanking it open and pointing his shotgun at the passenger seat.

He was met with nothing but open space; not until Spitfire opened the driver's door and stuck her blade in. Her head swiveled from left to right, clearly confused. He could hardly blame her.

He gripped the frame of the door and hauled himself into the vehicle, sweeping the shotgun back and forth in cautious preparation. There was a backseat, but it was also vacant. The floor, on the other hand, was a cluttered mess of broken-down guns and random ammunition—as if it had all been carelessly dumped there with the hope of one day sorting through it properly.

 _Dumped. Dumped on the floor in a haste—in a haste to hide before they could be killed like the others. But hide where?_

Max eyes trailed to the backseat again. It was clean, aside from a few tears and stains.

"What're you sittin' around for?" Spitfire asked, an edge to her tone that showed her impatience. She never did like suspenseful silence. Too bad for her, she would have to wait a bit longer. If his assumption was correct, he did not want the raiders to receive a forewarning.

He pointed his shotgun at the backseat while he extended his opposite hand and grabbed the top of the cushion. He considered counting to three, but found the notion foolish and yanked down the cushion on _one_. The seat pulled away easily; however, the chaos that followed did not go as smoothly.

He had tugged the cushion halfway down when a brutal kick jarred his wrist. He withdrew hastily, aiming the shotgun at the blur of movement tumbling his way and firing a shot. There was a cry as a figure collapsed against the folded backseat; however, two more people took his place, rushing at him with ferocity. He felt his shotgun arm wrench backwards while a heavy force pinned his other arm to the dashboard, a sudden, agonizing sensation traveling up his bicep. He kicked in retaliation, the heels of his boots managing a couple solid blows; unfortunately, it failed to drive away either attacker, fueling only their anger. A hand snagged his hair and slammed his head down—a painful connection between his skull and the console that littered his vision with black spots.

There was a flash on his right, dangerously close to the raider's throat, then a sprinkle of carmine. His right arm was suddenly free, and he swung it around, the butt of his shotgun striking the other man holding him down. The raider tumbled out the passenger door, and Max lazily followed him, landing in the warm, uneven sand.

He probably should have rolled back onto his feet and assessed the situation again; yet, strangely, he felt disoriented. He blamed the blow to his skull—must have struck a sensitive spot. Still, did not eliminate the raider lying inches away from him, moving and shifting and recovering faster than Max.

Then someone landed beside him, and he turned his head to the side to see the masked features of Spitfire. Her depthless goggles stared at him, then moved away to some object behind him. Her dagger glinted in the sunlight, stained dark red with blood. She disappeared from sight and a squelching sound met his ears. Moments later, Spitfire returned, goggles perched on her forehead and eyes narrowed curiously.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, but her voice sounded strange. Distance and muffled, like she was talking behind a wall. He could barely understand her.

He shook his head—or, at least, he thought he did. Either way, Spitfire walked around to his side and knelt down, scanning him and searching for some visual answer. Finally, she grasped his left elbow and turned his arm, eliciting a sharp, burning stab of pain from his bicep. He grunted, gritting his teeth together and shutting his eyes. He faintly heard Spitfire mutter under her breath, but he could not make out the words.

"Hey. _Hey_."

He cracked his eyes open, but the world was merely shapes and shadows. Spitfire was only a blotch against the sun—a sun that was too bright.

"Buddy, listen to me."

He drifted, barely clinging to consciousness as he waited for whatever nonsense Spitfire had to tell him. He wished she would _hurry up_ and quit with the suspense. What could she have to say, anyway? A last-minute joke? A bitter comment?

"I think you were poisoned."

He could not discern whether she was jesting or telling the truth. Quite unfortunate, since he slipped into darkness as soon as Spitfire finished her sentence. He could only hope that Spitfire had told him a cruel lie. If not, he would have to rely on aforementioned woman to ensure his safety—his survival.

He would probably never wake again.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **reddevil47:**_ Just when they begin to show signs of progress, Asher screws everything up. She regrets nothing. Thank you for the review!

 _ **KatieBees:**_ I'm super glad Max's POV came out well! Based solely on what I have seen from _Fury Road_ , it can become difficult to capture what runs through his mind - other than survival and the ghosts that haunt him, of course. As for Asher: She likes to test her boundaries. A lot. Has she learned her lesson? Nah, probably not. She'll probably lay low for a bit then go right back at it. Although, she is going to have to make some deliberating decisions next Chapter, I'm sure you can imagine after what happened at the end of this one.

Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed the new installment!

 _ **Alya Kihaku:**_ Yeah, they probably would. Lately though, I think Max and Asher are more eager to get rid of each other. They have a _long_ road ahead of them (literally and figuratively). Hope you liked Chapter 4!

 _ **K:**_ Don't worry: There will be plenty more, haha. Thank you for reviewing!

 _ **Oddmosis:**_ Thank you very much, and I'm really glad you are enjoying the story so far! I hope to keep you hooked!

 ** _Comingsummers:_** It's good to hear that! And of course Max needs a challenge in his life; hence, Asher enters the picture. Even the Wasteland could not prepare him for Asher...and vice versa.

 _ **MaggieMcCartney:**_ Luckily, tension and action are my specialty...well, not really, but I do enjoy writing those type of scenes, haha. Thank you for your review!

 ** _Farbeyondthegrave:_** I'm flattered! I'm also glad you liked Chapter 3, and I hope Chapter 4 was just as good.

 ** _Annybelle:_** Oh, definitely. They cannot make progress without backtracking a bit, it seems. Contradicting, but that's how they cope. I suppose we should take pride that they have not killed each other yet; but, then again, they still have thirty-two days of travel. We'll see how it goes.

 _ **Zae:**_ Thank you, that is extremely kind of you to say! Let's see if I can keep the surprises coming, haha.

 _ **Laura:**_ I'm glad! Max is one of those characters you really have to sit back and think about, since the movie only shows you so much. (Not that I'm complaining. I absolutely loved Max's portrayal in _Fury Road._ ) As for Asher pushing Max's buttons: Nah, I love it, too. Asher is one of those people who leaps before she looks, and does not care about the consequences until they catch up to her. It is an...interesting personality to write. Max hates it, though. That does not change.

 _ **Amazing:**_ Thank you so much! Here is the next update, and I hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Chapter 5: The Choice Is Ours

**Author's Note:** Welcome back, dear readers. I present to you Chapter 5, with a healthy dose of Asher and internal conflict (well, maybe not entirely healthy, but it works well enough). I do not have much to say this time around, so I will not keep you distracted for long. A big thank you to everyone who has followed this story, added it to their favorites or left a review! You give this author great encouragement and pride.

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them.**_

* * *

 **Chapter V:**

 **The Choice Is Ours**

" _God grant me the courage not to give up what I think is right even though I think it is hopeless." –Chester W. Nimitz_

* * *

Asher was no expert in medicine. She knew enough about the anatomy of a person to deliver a fatal or crippling blow; however, she had no healing wisdom. So at that moment, when Buddy lost his grip on reality and went limp, her battle-frenzied mind quieted into a low hum. The heat of the sun absorbed into her jacket and created a thin sheen of sweat across her skin; the coppery scent of spilt blood seemed more prominent; and the deadly silence of the Wasteland created an empty ring in her ears, punctuated by her heavy breathing. It was as if the whole world was holding still, waiting for her next course of action.

 _Think, think, think_ —what steps should she take when dealing with poison? She screwed her eyes shut and wracked her brain for common sense; and, in answer, her subconscious released a flurry of memories that flooded into her forethoughts. She grimaced as she remembered the various procedures to maintain human functionality—images of men and women barely clinging to life, receiving crude treatment to keep them running, as if they were merely engines to be fixed.

Of course, poisoning had not been a normal occurrence amongst those damages; but blood-loss had been, and the healers had always aimed to slow the rate of the flow—to work against the fast transport of rushing adrenaline and a hammering heart. Surely poison operated along the same guidelines, just spreading rather than leaking.

Hurriedly, she tugged Buddy's injured arm free of his jacket sleeve, giving clear view of the jagged puncture wound in his bicep. It was not bleeding profusely, but it was nasty-looking—a needle that had ripped free in the struggle, tearing the skin more than should be necessary. A brief glance would have deemed the injury as a stab wound. Asher knew better, though. For years she has killed with a blade, and the injury Buddy sported was too unusual for such a classification. Combined with Buddy's unconsciousness, Asher figured it was some sort of toxin or drug. The true question was what _type_ of poison Buddy had been dosed with.

She shook her head. She could not dwell on it for long. If she wanted Buddy to stand a chance, she needed to stop pondering and take action.

 _And why do you want him to survive? He's not waking up anytime soon. You can take his car and you can load up on supplies from the raiders. What happened to working alone, Ash?_

Asher clenched her jaw as she listened to her inner voice scold her. It was indecisive. Initially, it wanted to cooperate with Buddy; next, it wanted to steal from him; now, it wanted to leave him to die in the Wasteland. It was a cruel part of her mind—her own personal monster that occasionally reared its hideous head.

Amazingly, though, it always managed to make a sound debate. Why _would_ she waste her time and efforts to preserve Buddy's life? What _did_ happen to working alone? She had asked the latter question at the very beginning of her journey; but now, at that opportune moment to escape and resume her solitary life, she was choosing to keep Buddy alive and by her side—like a _partner_.

She growled to herself, unraveling the scarf around her head. She loosened it enough to tug it off her skull and stretch it to its full length. Then she began the process of wrapping Buddy's arm, right above the puncture wound. Her self-directed anger influenced her actions, making her movements ungraceful but helping her keep the necessary tension in the scarf to slow the blood flow—and, consequently, the spread of the poison.

She was doing this for her own survival. She needed Buddy to help her get to where she wanted. If he died, she would suffer.

 _Is that so? Or are you just trying to convince yourself?_

"Doesn't matter," she snapped aloud. "I've made up my mind."

She finished the binding, tied off the end and rocked back on her heels to admire her less-than-spectacular work. She nodded to herself, satisfied. Then she stood, stretching her legs and torso, feeling a strange shift on her head that felt foreign yet distantly familiar. She raised her chin and watched a dark tress of hair enter her peripheral vision, swaying like a pendulum in an invisible breeze. She pinched the uneven ends between her thumb and forefinger and tugged at them curiously; however, the action merely summoned more stray strands.

It was strange to see her own hair. She had kept the pesky locks tucked away in a scarf for the longest time—though not without good reason. Hair was a nuisance. When set free, it could blind her vision and leave her vulnerable to attack, or it would attract too much unnecessary attention. She could not cope with those side effects. The Wasteland did not bend, especially for a quality as measly as outward appearance. Appearances often get one killed, anyway. Or worse.

Leaving her dark tresses alone, she surveyed the area, dully noting the stillness that surrounded the band of vehicles. Buddy's muscle car sat calmly among the chaos, sporting only a few bullet holes along its side. It was drivable, at the very least. That was all she wanted. Now, she just needed to get Buddy into the car.

 _I've never seen you so determined, Ash. Some change of heart?_

Asher readily ignored the snide comment and set herself into motion once more. She proceeded to remove Buddy's jacket, finding the material cumbersome, clinging to only one side of his body. She then slipped her arms under his and laced her fingers over his chest. Sucking in a breath, she lifted Buddy's upper body off the ground and tugged him backwards, the heels of his boots creating miniature valleys in the sand. Sweat formed on her brow and slipped down her nose, and her hair obscured her peripheral vision, forming a tangled, clumped curtain. The disadvantage made her feel open to attack, despite the lack of life.

She reached the passenger side, quickly shot out her left hand to open the door and began the tedious process of getting Buddy into the seat. Dragging him had been a relatively easy task; forcing him into a vehicle was absolutely frustrating. He was heavy, and his untouchable arm—for Asher had no desire to fiddle with the poison-infected wound any further—created only greater stresses. It was a wonder how she accomplished the feat, hauling him up to the seat's level, cooperating with his limp legs and ensuring his injured arm would not be agitated. When she was done, though, she let out a relieved sigh and happily slammed the door shut. Now, she could do a quick scavenge. Asher really hoped Buddy was right about the possibility of supplies in the caravan.

She patted the muscle car's roof before trudging toward the nearest vehicle—one of the cars with spears and jagged metal attached to its exterior—and began her search. She nitpicked through everything, finding a variety of used-up materials. Each car did have a set of three canteens; however, only one of the six contained water, half-filled and mixed with grainy sand. The others were dry, hinting that they had not been filled in days. It was no wonder they had been determined to kill her and Buddy—they had been drawing from the same desperate hope that the other had much-needed resources.

Leaving the cars with only one canteen of poor-quality water—not that she could complain, considering how rare and valuable the liquid was—she approached the leading truck once again. She made sure to scoop up Buddy's jacket and toss it over her shoulder, and pick up his shotgun and keep a tight grip on the handle—not that there was anything to kill with it.

She clambered through the open passenger door. She was met with the awkwardly crumpled body of a raider, throat slit and blood staining the driver's seat a deep scarlet. That was her doing. She had been annoyed by Buddy's resolute silence when he had lapsed into thought; and that aggravation had morphed into panicked urgency when Buddy had revealed the ambush-ready raiders. Too bad she had not been on the opposite side. Maybe she could have prevented the poisoning.

 _Or you could have been poisoned instead. You really think he would have done all of this for you if you were in his position?_

"Guess we'll never know now, huh?" she retorted bitterly, glancing out the windshield to stare at the prone muscle car. She could vaguely make out Buddy's form in the passenger seat. Still unconscious.

 _You could be long gone before he wakes up—if he ever does. Why not risk it?_

She shook her head. "I wasted a lot of time gettin' him in that car; he ain't coming back out that soon."

She leaned forward and swept her hand under the driver seat, feeling for any stashed objects. Mostly, she dug out scraps, random bullets and shell casings. She then switched her focus to the passenger seat and began again.

Meanwhile, the voice had not discarded its wishes. Asher knew it had conniving roots and convincing persuasion. She attempted to mute its taunts, but the task was too difficult. Its mocking, resentful tone still echoed loudly in her skull.

 _Are you afraid?_

Of course not. She has not been afraid of anything for years. She could handle any situation that came hurdling her way, or eliminate any man or woman that wished to harm her. Otherwise, she would not be alive right now.

 _Then why save him? Do you fear abandoning him? Do you believe he will beat this poison and hunt you down and kill you?_

"Shut up!" she hissed, smacking the dashboard and feeling the sharp shock of the impact radiate into her palm. The empty silence returned, and her mind seemed as barren as the Wasteland. Grateful for the peace, she hurriedly resumed her search and ignored any thoughts concerning Buddy—despite the fact that his jacket hung on her shoulder and his shotgun was still clasped in her left hand.

She examined the guns sprawled on the floor. Several of them were dismantled, but she managed to uncover two more pistols that were partly stocked. She shoved them into the available pockets within her jacket and collected an assortment of bullets that seemed to suit her weapons. Underneath the backseat, she unveiled a machete, coated with old blood but still sharp along the edge. She gladly claimed the blade as her own, finding it to be a wonderful compliment to her dagger.

That left her with one last spot: The compartment behind the backseat.

She shoved the dead raider—this one's gut shredded by a shotgun blast—out of her path and slipped into the compacted space. It was dim, and Asher's eyes—too accustomed to the glaringly bright sun—struggled to adjust. Ultimately, she just snatched whatever she came across and pushed them toward the entrance. Satisfied with her thoroughness, she crawled back out and picked through the wares.

Three more canteens, only one filled with sand-inflicted water; a variety of empty cans while four remained untouched; and a leather bag, worn and scuffed from years of use.

Asher separated the goods from the bunch and kept them close to her side while she poked through the bag's contents. She threw open the flap and gazed into the carrier, baffled when she saw only a plastic vial and a set of thinly-cut metal pieces bound by a strip of cloth. She pulled both out, bringing them to eye-level and turning them around and around. The vial was unmarked, and it was filled with a clear fluid. The metal was sharp and jagged, crudely formed and easily breakable if enough force was applied.

She recalled Buddy's wound, then compared it to the slender pieces of metal in her hand. It could probably puncture skin and hit the underlying muscle before finally snapping—maybe worse chances if the victim put up a good struggle. Hardly useful as a standalone weapon. With an agent to deliver a more crippling blow, however, could make it formidable—an agent like a strong poison, contained in a small vial and withholding an innocent appearance.

She nearly laughed. She had been considering how appearances could get one killed, talking about her hair. Essentially, she was comparing the mess on her head to a toxin. That was some piece of dark humor.

She tossed the poison and makeshift needles back into the bag and slung it over her unburdened shoulder. She may need it one day. No need to let it go to waste in the hands of dead men. Buddy's jacket was used as a temporary sack, carrying the two canteens, four cans and Buddy's shotgun.

She left the truck, marched through the sand, stepped over the limp body of the carbine-wielder and rejoined with the muscle car. She nestled into the driver's seat and set the supplies in the back. The three pistols joined the stack, and the revolver was tucked behind the driver's seat, where it belonged. She might as well keep the agreement she made with Buddy, since she was keeping the machete and poison to herself. The former she shoved into the side of her left boot and the latter she tucked safely behind the passenger's seat for the time being.

She was armed, supplied and prepared. She spared a glance at Buddy, eyeing him carefully. He was breathing, so he was still alive. His skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat, and his soiled shirt was a splotchy mess of blood and perspiration. The wound on his arm was slightly swollen, and Asher leaned in a bit closer to inspect it. She knew the faux needles were brittle; therefore, she wondered whether if there were any remains of the metal lodged in the injury.

She exhaled heavily through her nose and removed her right glove. She looked up at Buddy's impassive features and lidded eyes. "Really glad you're not awake, 'cause this is probably gonna hurt."

Focusing, she probed at the bottom of the wound, frowning as her thumb and forefinger sank into the flesh. The muscles in Buddy's arm twitched, and a disgruntled noise passed his lips. Asher did not stop, though, merely pressing her opposite hand into his shoulder to prevent too much movement. Her fingernail scraped something foreign, and she set herself to the task of fishing it out. She grimaced as she delved deeper, searching for the buried metal. She found it again and pinched it between her fingers, slowly pulling the piece out. It was substantially long, perhaps three-quarters the length of the original needle. Probably a good idea she got it out, after all.

 _What if he dies from the poison anyway? You'd be wasting your time, Ash. Removing a tiny piece of metal isn't gonna get him much further._

She was well aware of that, but that hardly made her change her mind. She only grunted in acknowledgement, cracked open the door and tossed out the broken, bloodied metal.

 _You're absolutely mad._

"Thought I told you to shut up," she mumbled aloud, staring at the steering in front of her. She brushed a hand over the overused surface, then gripped it with both hands—testing it. She did not particularly want to sit amongst a band of empty vehicles and dead raiders, in the middle of the Wasteland. It was too open, and anyone could see them from miles away. Unfortunately, Buddy was unable to drive at the moment, and Asher had little experience other than observation.

She would just have to figure it out.

Easily, she brought the engine to life with a simple twist of the keys in the ignition. The seat vibrated, hinting at the unforetold power under her command—intimidating, but greatly enticing. She swallowed thickly and lightly placed her foot on the gas pedal, steadily applying pressure. The engine grumbled, but the wheels barely turned. That would not do in the sand-covered terrain. She pressed down more harshly—somewhat jerkily, as well—and the muscle car lurched forward, nearly crushing the former carbine owner. Asher spun the wheel, avoiding the truck and cruising past it. They were headed west again. Painstakingly slow—brushing forty-five miles-per-hour, sometimes touching fifty if she felt daring—but they were making progress.

Best of all, her inner voice had quieted itself, and Buddy was not keeping her under his tight watch. She was at peace. For now.

* * *

Buddy was plagued by nightmares. Asher had noticed this fact the night before, when he had agreed to get some rest while she watched for trouble. He was not too frenzied, as some delirious souls were; rather, he shifted often, mumbled names and offered soft apologies. She had desperately tried to ignore them that night; however, when a certain title left his mouth—a delicate, feminine 'Jessie' he whispered too tenderly—he seemed to suffer the most. Head turning left and right, as if searching; eyes roving behind closed eyelids; beads of sweat growing on his brow—she did not want to witness his pain anymore. She had seen too much of it in the past to put up with it now.

Then the madness had entered his eyes as he leveled a shotgun at her forehead, and it took him too long for him to remember who she was. She silently promised to never interfere again, if she valued her life.

The second night, unfortunately, was much worse than the first. He could not sit still, and Asher knew he was on the verge of lashing out in his hazy imaginations. She heard names, most notably Jessie, and his apologies melted into pleas. At that moment, she found it difficult to picture the ruthless, rough-around-the-edges man she had met only a few days prior, for all she could hear was a broken, tormented soul.

She resisted the urge to slam on the brakes, opting to ease it to a slow stop before hurriedly exiting the vehicle and shutting the door. She leaned against the side of the muscle car, stomach pressed against the window and forearms resting on the cool roof. Still, she could hear Buddy, but the metal hide of the car muffled his words efficiently.

She blamed the poison and its heightened effects on his mind. It almost made her feel guilty about taking the toxin with her—almost, but she knew it was solely for survival. If it helped her see another sunrise, then she assumed it washed away any sins that accompanied it. She simply hoped it would never be turned against her. She did not want what Buddy was experiencing. Past mistakes rising from the black tar of hate and vengeance—an ugly beast entering the light of day. She did not dwell on them for a reason, and she was thankful that they usually stayed away from her dreams. Actually, recalling those crude medical treatments she had witnessed had been the first time in months she had voluntarily looked back on her life. By God, they better have been worth remembering. _Buddy_ better be worth it.

Asher closed her eyes and breathed in the night air. She needed to keep driving and stop squandering her time. If anything did happen to Buddy along the journey, at least she would be closer to her goal. More chance of survival that way.

She reached around behind her and unhooked her canteen. She took a few sips, leaving only a trace amount left sloshing at the bottom. She considered draining the rest, but a thought occurred to her that halted her hand: Buddy had not gotten a drink in quite some time. Possible dehydration combined with the effects of poison did not sound healthy, even to her lacking medical knowledge; but neither did giving an unconscious person water sound feasible or safe. It was a dilemma she could not work around. He needed to wake up soon.

 _So you're saving a man dying of poison and dehydration. You're disappointing me, Ash._

"And you're no one, so I have no shame," she retaliated, hooking the canteen to her lower back. She popped open the driver's door and sat back down. She gave a fleeting glance toward Buddy, noting his blissful silence; and she was surprised to find his head turned in her direction, eyes half-open and staring at her dazedly. She blinked, surprised and somewhat hopeful.

His slurred question, though, derailed all optimism. "Jessie?"

There was that name again, spoken without a hint of gruffness—as if the Wasteland could never taint it. It took Asher too long to realize that he was asking her about this 'Jessie' and not mumbling the dainty designation in a dreamy haze.

She swallowed and shook her head minutely. "She's not here. Just me. Spitfire."

He stared at her, weighing her words. Asher wondered if the name rung a familiar bell in his head, and shook loose the unpleasant memories they had together. Maybe he was merely processing the absence of Jessie and where she could possibly be. Maybe he was thinking of nothing and had drifted away from the present.

Despite the possibilities, Asher made no effort to further the conversation. She had nothing to say about the odd aura passing between them. Slivers of understanding, filled in with confusion and discomfort and despair. Those were the first emotions that had really spawned from one another other than anger and petulance. Asher could not judge whether she liked it or not.

Finally, Buddy faced forward again, eyelids nearly closed. "She gone?" he mumbled.

One may have questioned the definition of _gone_ ; Asher knew better, though, and silently accepted the term as _dead_. In the Wasteland, they had the same meaning—the same heavy weight of grim, bitter grief. _Gone_ was just a way to escape the shocking blow of its counterpart.

She shrugged lightly, unsure. "I don't know," she responded honestly.

He sighed—a gust of air flaring his nostrils. His head began to loll, telling Asher that he was losing his grip on reality again. "Has t' be," he dejectedly said. "She went under the wheels."

Asher stared at the side of his head, waiting for him to explain the jumble of words that had just tumbled past his lips. Of course, he never did, for the poison had dragged him back into the pits of unconsciousness. He would not be elaborating anymore for quite some time.

She faced forward, fingers idly playing with the bottom of the steering wheel. Jessie went under the wheels—in other words, she was mercilessly ran over and killed. _Gone_. Never coming back.

It was no wonder Buddy had threatened her so vehemently the night before. She had prodded an old, poorly healed wound, aiming for the most sensitive nerve. What she said did not make Buddy consider slowing down; it only made him remember a woman disappearing under the bumper.

She sighed and shook her head. She did not want to think about her mistakes. She just wanted to forget. Why was she suddenly struggling to do so?

Soon enough, the muscle car was tearing through the night, rumbling its monstrous growls to the starlit sky. Buddy never made another sound, his nightmares suspiciously quiet. Asher could not decide whether she was happy or not. With the knowledge she had, it made no difference.

* * *

At daybreak, Asher finally stopped the car and switched off the engine. The unsettling quiet of the Wasteland eagerly closed around her, disturbed only by her and Buddy's breathing and the soft whistle of the wind. Asher's tired eyes watched the sand swirl and spin across the featureless plain. They were miniature dust storms, only dreaming of ever reaching the mind-boggling grandness of the real thing.

 _I'm sure you would drive straight into one, considering your recent decisions._

She laughed softly. She thought the inner voice had finally fell into a hibernation of sorts, since it had kept to itself for the majority of the night. She underestimated the little nuisance.

She unlatched her canteen and swallowed the last remnants of her personal water, then tossed the empty canteen into the back, purposely separated from the filled ones. Her parched throat thanked her, the soreness it had developed easing slightly.

Her gaze drifted to Buddy—particularly his wound. The puncture had swollen to a larger state, and the skin around the opening was an irritated red color. Carefully, she fiddled with the scarf and loosened it, accommodating for the distension of his upper arm. She did not miss the twitch of his hand or the grunt from his lips. The latter made her believe he was awake, for it was not uncommon for him to make such a noise when he felt too lazy to use words. A brief scan of his face, though, revealed that he was still lost to the world around him. Probably in his horrible dreamland, warring with his demons.

Since his incoherent conversation with her hours earlier, Buddy had not uttered a single word. He did not move, he did not mumble, he did not mention the name 'Jessie' one more time—he was at peace, from an outside perspective. Asher was grateful—mostly for her own sake, if she was honest. Ever since learning about the fate of Jessie, she had had enough of Buddy's unearthed qualms. She was not one to wallow in guilt—pity sometimes, but never guilt, since it came with thick, binding chains—but Buddy's sorrowful confession made her mull over her use of Jessie's name.

It had not necessarily been malevolent. If anything, it had probably carried some truth. Jessie obviously had been important to Buddy; surely the feeling had been mutual. Buddy wrecking his car and, consequently, killing himself would probably not be the ideal future Jessie could have wanted for Buddy. To die in a similar fashion was hardly poetic. More like a slap to the face, with a punch in the gut for good measure.

That was not her concern, though. She knew neither Buddy nor Jessie very well, and she had no plans to do so. The less she knew, the better. She was already making a mistake, partnering with a stranger and fighting to _save_ his life. That was a companionship, and she did not need that. She was a killer—not a friend.

 _Oh, so now you reconsider your code. Why? Why now and not back there?_

That was a good question. Why think about her choices now? Why entertain the possibility of leaving him in the Wasteland now instead of at the caravan? He would have died a lot quicker, and she would be long gone, driving to wherever she pleased. That would have been much simpler.

It also would have been betrayal. Just like the incident with the scavengers: If she knowingly let Buddy get skewered, she would be backstabbing him like any heartless monster in the Wasteland. She would be aiming for her own benefit, not caring who she lost in the process. In the end, they were only numbers—casualties for her survival.

 _And what are you doing right now, Ash? You're taking his help to benefit yourself. You would be no more selfish for killing him than just sticking around for the ride. The difference: You wouldn't have a threat breathing down your neck. Think about it._

That was very true. So _very_ true.

She glanced at Buddy again, watching the swivel of his eyeballs behind his eyelids and the rise and fall of his chest. She would be stealing from him, no matter which path she took. One was merely easier than the other. Besides, he was already suffering from poison and ghouls. She would be doing him a favor.

Her gaze dropped to her right calf and the hilt of her dagger poking out of the sheath. Tentatively, she reached down and grasped aforementioned hilt, sliding the blade free with a long-drawn s _hing_. She tilted the dagger, bouncing the sunrays off the metal and catching glimpses of her dirty complexion and oily hair whenever she twisted it too much her way. One swipe, a shove out the door and a hasty escape away from the scene—it could be painless for both of them.

Swiftly, she swung the blade around, stopping two inches short of Buddy's throat. She half-expected him to catch the dagger and glare at her with his unforgiving grey eyes—an accusation for the act she was prepared to commit. That did not happen, though. He was perfectly motionless—oblivious to the threat about to slice his jugular and end his life. One, fatal stroke. Then she was done. No one would ever know. She would force herself to forget. Everything would be right again.

She touched the metal to his skin. She clenched her jaw and tried to ignore the rush of adrenaline entering her veins. Her grip on the dagger's hilt was tight, turning her knuckles a stark white and creating a faint waver in her arm. The minutes were ticking away, but she could not move from that position.

 _You've done it before. It's easy._

It should be easy, but it was not. Nothing could encourage her hand to move even a fraction. She was stone. Knowing her luck, Buddy would wake before she finally decided to kill him—a very late and a very poor decision.

 _Then do it, Ash. You know what it feels like. This is just a different face. You didn't hesitate with that raider._

No, she did not. The raider had had Buddy pinned, and she had reacted on instinct. She had not wanted to sit back and watch.

 _You knew they would come after you next. That's your instinct: Survival._

She tested the dull blade, making a light impression on Buddy's throat. It did not break the skin, but it garnered a subtle shift from Buddy that made Asher's breath hitch. He still did not open his eyes. He was begging for death, whether he was aware of it or not. More than likely, he was not.

 _Don't doubt! Do it!_

She bent her elbow, withdrawing slowly. She was not a betrayer. Not anymore. She refused to follow in the footsteps of her past mistakes. Buddy did not deserve that, despite it all. She had no liking toward him, ever since he stole her water and forced her into this position; but at least the nightmares were making him suffer enough. To end it now would be too much mercy. She was not avenged yet.

 _You're fooling yourself._

Maybe she was, but she was content with that. It if accomplished her goals, she did not care how badly she blinded herself. It was a risk, and risks were a part of the system of the Wasteland—even Buddy had reinstated that same fact. The daring were always rewarded, someway, somehow. She only needed to wait.

Exhaling, she shoved her dagger back into its sheath and stared out the window. She was tempted to sleep off the nerves that now wracked her body; however, she knew better than to shut out the world. Buddy could not keep watch, and the muscle car was sitting in the middle of a barren landscape, visible to any naked eye. She would be asking for trouble if she slept.

Hence, she surveyed the land, eyes sweeping methodically from left to right. At the slightest disturbance, she would drive away and find refuge elsewhere. For now, though, she would simply relax.

Her inner voice was dissatisfied. _You're weak, Ash. This is why we don't form partnerships._

"You insisted upon it in the first place," she mumbled dryly, throat sore again.

Other than that pitiful retort, she had no argument. Companions were a bane, and she had blithely accepted it. Maybe she was as mad as Buddy—maybe she was madder.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **A:**_ Thank you so much! That is amazing of you to say, and I'm really glad you are enjoying the story thus far. As for Max: He's in great hands...okay, not really, but Asher is his only option right now. He can't complain too much. Thank you for reviewing!

 ** _KatieBees:_** Thank you! As you can see, Asher is rather conflicted; and though she decided not to leave Max behind, she is still second-guessing herself. Again, she did not look before she leaped, and now she is dealing with the consequences. Works out pretty well for Max, though, if Asher does not decide to dump him in the Wasteland. He has a fifty-fifty shot. And the next thirty-two days? I'm sure everything will go horribly wrong. Nothing to worry about.

Thanks for the review!

 _ **Vorazlov28:**_ I'm glad you like it! I hope you enjoyed the newest installment, as well!

 _ **LazyPhoenix:**_ Thanks! I'm really glad Max is in-character, and it's good to hear that Asher is coming along well ( _lovable_ is questionable; we'll go with Max's description of _tolerable_ , haha). We'll see how these two...work together.

 _ **Abohrition:**_ Nah. Max probably trusts his car more than he trusts Asher - and the car can only do so much to save his life. He'll get there, though. Eventually. So will Asher. Maybe. It's debatable.

Thank you for your review!


	6. Chapter 6: With the Coming Dawn

**Author's Note:** Welcome back, dear readers, and I present to you, Chapter 6. Gosh, you all make me proud with how far this story has come, especially in only six Chapters. Thank you so, so much! I could not do this without you.

On another note, I am excitedly counting the days until September 1st when I can get my hands on the _Mad Max_ game. Granted, I probably will not fare well and create some monstrous disaster of a vehicle; but, in the world of games, you have to have some trial and error. You live, you die, you live again (yes, yes I did knowingly reference that). Aside from that, though, I am particularly interested how the story plot will be about. Can it live up to _Fury Road_? I hope so.

I will leave you to the Chapter, then. Enjoy!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them.**_

* * *

 **Chapter VI:  
With the Coming Dawn**

" _There was a time when a moment like this / Wouldn't ever cross my mind." –Bastille, "The Driver"_

* * *

Asher was restless. She altered her grip on the wheel; increased and decreased her speed; tugged at her hair then stubbornly shoved it over her shoulder; reached for her dagger and ensured its presence on her person—she was moving every few minutes, switching amongst these various activities. She partly blamed exhaustion, and partly blamed the monotonous stretch of sand, dunes and weather-battered rocks. She was living in an endless loop, each mile mirroring the previous one. Combined with the pleading sense of thirst and the gnawing ferocity of hunger, she was teetering along a very thin line—stability on one side, chaos on the other side.

The latter beckoned to her, murmuring in the disturbing silence that hung in the air; or maybe she was merely mesmerized by the rumble of the engine, its thunderous clamor seeping through the cracked-open windows. Whichever notion was true, Asher did not particularly care. She ignored it, anyway. She could not sate her predicament, or any of the individual factors that caused it. She could not sleep; she could not stop driving; and she did not want to dwindle valuable supplies for petty reasons. Considering what had happened during her and Buddy's attempt to acquire their current valuables, she was not eager to initiate another struggle for some meager supremacy.

 _Survival, Ash. You're not conquering anybody._

Of course. Survival. That was her basic function, like a machine designed to perform a singular task. If it failed, it was broken and scrapped; if it succeeded, it continued to run for as long as could—anywhere between days and years.

Survival, however, did not seem too different from supremacy. They were both fueled by victory. One was meant for outlasting everyone else while the other meant dominating peers for an upper-hand. Both were also cruel, employing whatever means necessary to reach their objectives; and, consequently, those extremes created monsters. They were connected. They were both utilized freely in the Wasteland. The only major dividing line between them was the benefits they wrought to the culprit.

So perhaps she was both fighting for her life and crushing others under her heel. At least it gave her water and food. At least it gave her weapons. At least it gave her a _chance_. Those raiders would not have lasted longer than a week, anyway.

 _Who else may not last longer than a week?_

She spared a darting glance at the passenger seat. Buddy was motionless aside from his steady breaths. He had not spoken or woken, either; not since the night before. Not even the nightmares plagued him. Asher supposed she should be mildly concerned; but, instead, she decided to link the shift with healing. True, his wound was still swollen, but it had not changed otherwise—for the worse or for the better. Perhaps his peace meant the poison was wearing off and retreating from his fevered dreams. Or maybe he was suffering silently. Again, Asher tried not to think about it. At the right time, ignorance could be a blissful indulgence.

Ignorance could not last forever, though. It always crumbled.

Another hour passed and Asher was warring with her physical demands. Dreariness tugged at her eyelids and dreams circled around her brain. Occasionally, her eyes would betray her, and she would see cars racing along the horizon or a brute standing a few feet in front of the muscle car, prepared to be ran over. A solid blink could solve the problem, like it always had in the past. There were a handful of times, however, that Asher found herself swerving or nearly slamming on the brakes. During those situations, she would take one hand off the wheel and scrub at her eyes, summoning her clarity. There were grim moments she wondered when the next mirage would actually be reality, or a distorted image of a boulder that she thought was safe to drive through. She was going to kill herself and Buddy in her current state. All that was needed was a small mistake.

She could not sleep, though. Sleep would paint a target on the muscle car for any onlookers to aim for. She would be caught unawares and Buddy would be locked in unconsciousness. If they were spotted, she would be the only defense—she would be the final, crumbling wall their attackers would need to knock down. Her experience behind the blade would only sustain her for so long; even less if the number of enemies was overwhelming.

It was unquestionable. She had to keep driving.

At that moment (and beyond), she kindled a hatred for vehicles. When she was on-foot, she had no qualms and very few worries. Most ignored lone figures in the Wasteland—that is, if anyone ever noticed them. If she wanted to sleep, she could. She had little to fear, especially if she was diligent. How had Buddy coped so well with this issue? How had he coped with _any_ of the demanding requirements of a car? Was it truly worth all the trouble? Maybe she would ask the man when he woke.

 _If_ , the inner voice insisted earnestly. Asher did not acknowledge it. If she had not been exhausted, then she could have sworn she felt a spark of irritancy that was not her own.

Not her problem.

* * *

Afternoon came, and Asher found herself parking the muscle car amongst a nest of stones. Her head hit the cushion of the seat and she sunk down, slouching into a comfortable position. Her blinking was becoming lazier, and the images that plagued her vision were never-ending now. One would go, only to be replaced by another. Once, she had stopped the car, grabbed a pistol and aimed at the windshield. Nothing had been there to shoot.

She had to sleep—she was _going_ to sleep. She would deal with possible enemies when they appeared outside her door. Even then, she would have to question whether they were real or fictional.

Her eyelids sealed shut and her arms crossed loosely over her chest. A pistol and a revolver provided a reassuring weight in her lap, and the hilt of her dagger was within her grasp, the flat side of the blade pressed against her forearm. She was prepared should anyone dare to prey on their car. She could not say she would win, but she would at least take two lives with her. No less.

Despite her fatigue, however, she did not sleep soundly. She woke every few minutes, eyes burning as she scanned the horizon and scrutinized the rocks. Other times, she would find her attention drifting to Buddy, wondering if the man had emerged from his poisoned slumber. He never stirred; and that was not a surprise, for Asher was sure she was looking to him as often as she was surveying the land. Her mind had locked itself into a state of paranoia. She knew how visible the muscle car was; she knew how vulnerable her and Buddy were to ambush; she _knew_ her lack of awareness could be their death—now was not the time for rest, but for responsibility.

Truly, she despised that word. _Responsibility_. As if she was obligated to guard a car that was not hers, and to protect a man she had weak connections with—ties that only existed because of the temporary term 'partners.' Easily, she could leave both behind and take as much as she could carry. If guilt made her drag her feet, she could kill Buddy and slash the muscle car's tires. Then she would have nothing to go back to. Move along and survive like she always had. It was sensible.

The thought hung in the air for a few minutes. Surprisingly, her inner voice remained resolutely quiet, as if deciding to wait rather than intervene. The tactic actually infuriated her. She never liked changing fighting styles. They were always a nuisance, and nothing good ever came from them.

"Nothin' to say?" she asked aloud. When she received no response—within her mind or from the tangible world—she huffed dryly. "That's fine. I don't care. I still haven't changed my mind."

Oh, but her mind had changed. It was constantly flipping perspectives; it was searching for that perfect angle that gave her the best advantage. The only factor that had not changed was her physical actions to carry out the plans of her teetering reasoning. She just kept driving west and _hoped_ something would happen that would prevent her from making a regrettable decision.

She looked at Buddy. He did not budge, merely breathing deeply—in and out, unfailingly.

She would give him one more day. She would wait until tomorrow afternoon to see if he would finally emerge from his stagnate state. If not, she would have to deal with it. She would have to move on. She could not stay rooted because of one pesky hesitance. She would have to break free eventually.

Her eyes returned to the rocks. She saw a lizard—long and horned—wriggle through the sand, slipping through the crack of a stone. Darkness engulfed her soon afterwards, and her dreams—strangely enough—revolved around the little reptile.

More than anything, she wanted her life to be as simple as that creature. At least he did not have responsibilities. Just himself. That was all that mattered to him.

Perhaps, one day soon, she could return to that lifestyle.

* * *

Asher did not know what jerked her from her pleasant dream (the perspective of a lizard watching the world go on without any troubles). There was an alteration in the air that collided with her instincts and allowed the adrenaline to start coursing through her veins.

Her hand was gravitating toward the revolver when she felt the disturbance again—or, more accurately, _heard_ the disturbance.

A soft grunt.

Her head snapped to the right, eyebrows arched high on her brow when she saw Buddy shift and lean against the passenger door. A split-second later, she saw his hand fumbling for the door handle and she shot a hand toward him and caught him by the shoulder. The consequence was instantaneous.

Buddy swung his arm—his injured arm—at her, his forearm crashing into her nose. Pain erupted between her eyes, and she recoiled with a yowl. Buddy mimicked her movements, grunting again as he cradled his upper arm.

"Idiot! It's me!" she hissed. She cupped a hand over her nose, prodding the sensitive bridge and feeling along her upper lip. Blood dribbled lightly from one nostril, but nothing seemed to be broken.

She glared at Buddy, rage boiling; then her gaze drifted to his arm and the thin stream of crimson slipping past his fingers. Awake for barely a minute, and Buddy had already managed to worsen his condition. Asher was truly beginning to wonder why she kept him alive. He was going to kill himself one day. Just not today.

Without warning, she pried away his hand and examined the irritated wound and the leaking blood; but only for three seconds before Buddy was grabbing a fistful of her unveiled hair and jerking her head away. Instinctively, she clawed at his arm, feeling the coiled muscles beneath his skin—knowing he was about to slam her skull somewhere. A good impact with the console would send her into oblivion; and, considering his delirious state, he probably intended more than one strike.

She would not give him the opportunity.

She removed one hand from his arm, reached around, freed her dagger and brought it to Buddy's jugular, just like when she had been prepared to kill him that morning. The tension did not leave his limbs, but he did not release his pent-up energy, either. He stilled, breathing ragged and his grip tightening on Asher's hair. The roots tugged at her scalp, threatening to rip free; and, in retaliation, she increased the force of the blade, prepared to draw blood if Buddy did not calm himself.

For the first time since the struggle initiated, Buddy looked Asher in the eye. His grey eyes were hazy, like a drunken madman; however, she could see a sliver of the clarity he usually retained—that small part of him that held reason and recognition. She watched it flicker, like a dancing flame. Then, it flared bright, and Asher felt the sting ebb from her scalp. She returned the favor, lowering the blade and drawing it to her side.

They stared for a few moments longer. She leaned away from Buddy and reclined against the driver's side door. "You done?" she asked.

He blinked—dazed, maybe—then nodded his affirmative.

She imitated the gesture. Her gaze flicked toward his wound. "You okay?"

He followed her eyes and scanned his arm. He tugged testily at the scarf wound around his bicep, then brushed his fingertips over the puncture and the swollen skin. His features contorted briefly, and he grunted. Asher had no idea what he meant by his universal response, but she imagined him replying along the lines of 'I'm fine.' Not that she particularly cared. She was going to examine the injury whether he wanted her to or not. She had kept him going this long, had she not?

She batted his probing hand away and peered at the puncture wound. Aside from the streak of blood and the mild redness that colored the surrounding skin, the wound did not appear too gruesome. She sighed and swiped the blood away. Her eyes drifted back to his gaze.

"Next time, don't freak out." She paused for a moment, thinking. Then she added, "And don't ever use my hair against me again. Are we clear?"

His attention shifted to the crown of her head, then back to her face. He seemed somewhat shocked, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He nodded again.

"Good. We can be on agreeable terms again." She reached into the back and latched onto one of the canteens. She brought it between them, popped the cap open and extended it toward him. "Drink this. And do try to be conservative this time."

He barely hesitated to claim the canteen, and she feared he would guzzle every drop. He did not, though; instead, he took three measured sips and shoved it back into her hands. She accepted it and tossed it to the back.

More time passed. Eyes drifted in every direction, never quite meeting unless for a brief half-second. Buddy seemed particularly interested in their surroundings.

"Where are we?" he queried. Asher noted the cracked roughness of his voice. Probably still parched. She could find the will to give him any more water, though. She feared losing it too soon.

"Don't know." She shrugged. "West. Far away from where we fought those men."

"How many days?"

"About a day and a half."

He gave her a sideways glance. "I've been out that long?"

Essentially, yes, he had. She decided not to factor in his brief discussion of Jessie from last night. "Yeah."

He hummed.

It was her turn to look at him half-heartedly. "Why? Did you think I would leave you there?"

"I had no reason to believe you wouldn't."

Of course not. She would not trust herself either, especially if her actions were directed by her vicious inner voice. If only Buddy knew how close to death he had been—and not just by the poison alone. Her own hand had played a devious part. He had a reason to doubt her.

"You're right," she admitted. She tapped the steering wheel idly. "But I didn't leave you, and I didn't kill you, either. Can't say what the poison will do, but at least you're alive."

He grunted. Typical.

She snorted. "I'll take that as a 'thank you.'"

"Thought you said you don't need my appreciation."

This time, she actually laughed. Clever man. "That's right. In exchange that you don't blast my leg off." She extended her legs until her toes touched the gas and brake pedals. "Guess you've kept your word rather well."

"No point in maiming you with as far as we have to go."

"That's real comforting."

"With your setup, I wouldn't be worried."

Asher glanced down at herself. Dagger still in her right hand, machete wedged into her left boot, pistol and revolver at her feet, having fallen from her lap during the struggle—she had given herself several options to defend the muscle car efficiently. If she was going to die, then she was sure to bring some of her murderers down with her. That was her promise to herself.

"I don't take chances," she said, reaching down, sheathing her dagger and scooping up the pistol and revolver. She returned the latter two objects to the back. She was prepared to pull back when she saw the glinting double barrels of Buddy's shotgun, inches away from her fingertips.

 _Don't_ , her inner voice warned, venom dripping from the single command. Asher gladly defied it.

She latched onto the weapon and brought it forward. She held it between her and Buddy, admiring the shotgun for a moment—and perhaps considering the amount of trust she was putting into her decision—before facing Buddy. His features were taut, as if he was dreading what she planned to do with the shotgun. She inwardly laughed. Did he truly believe she would put a bullet in him after she had saved him from the slow death of poison? She was sure even her inner voice would find the notion wasteful.

She proffered the shotgun, extending it toward him, double barrels aimed at the roof of the car. "You dropped this," she remarked flippantly. "You can have it back, as long as you don't go through another one of your episodes and try to kill me. Can you do that?"

He did not say anything. He just grabbed the handle, studied her again then fully claimed the weapon. She settled back into her seat and nodded—though mostly to herself, coming to terms with what she had done.

"Then let's go, shall we?"

She ignited the engine and maneuvered out of the rocky terrain. She settled into her comfortable driving speed, hands curled tightly around the steering wheel in anxiousness. Her and Buddy did not speak to each other, merely watching the sand disappear beneath the wheels. At some point, Asher did spare a glance at Buddy—or, more specifically, at the shotgun lying across his lap.

The double barrels were pointed at the passenger door.

* * *

Buddy managed to stay conscious, though he shifted much too often. Asher ignored him, forcing herself to focus on the expanse of empty land before her and the sun sinking lower into the horizon. She pulled her goggled over her eyes at some point, hoping to dampen the harsh rays; however, she was disappointed to find droplets of dried blood speckling the lenses. She did not bother to clean them; just shoved them back onto her forehead. Night would come soon enough.

It did, but not peacefully.

The crescent moon had just taken the sun's place in the sky when Asher began driving up a steep slope. Her eyes darted to the left and right as she neared the crest, looking for an enemy hiding in the shadows. She caught a glimpse of Buddy's hand drifting toward his shotgun, curling around the double barrels. He was expecting the worse, too. At that moment, she was rather glad she had given him a weapon. He could hold his own—he could watch her right.

The front tires reached the top and hauled them up, a slight jolt wracking the car as it searched for traction in the loose terrain. The abrupt movement had Asher's entire body stiffen with bottled tension.

Her gaze drifted from the left and peered down at the expanse below them.

She stopped the car.

There, partly buried under mounds of sand and surrounded by jagged rock outcroppings, was a conjugated mess of concrete, glass and rusted steel—a building. At least, it used to be a building. Tall, judging by its length and width, and perhaps once a glorious sight to behold. Now, it was lying on its side like a slain beast. A piece of the Old World left to rot in the Damaged World.

"Ever seen anything like it?" she asked involuntarily.

Buddy's eyes roved over the building. "Not quite."

So perhaps he had seen fragments of what the world used to be, but not to this scale. They were both witnessing something that seemed too abstract to be a part of the Wasteland. It sent a tingle of excitement down Asher's spine, and she felt the undeniable urge to get closer.

 _Don't kill yourself over it_ , her inner voice drawled, a sharp edge to its tone. It was probably still pissed about her defiance. Again, she could care less; however, she decided to acknowledge its advice. The building's ruined grandeur may seem untouchable, but that did not mean it was uninhabited. As she sat there and swept her gave over the fallen structure, she could image a thousand eyes watching her and Buddy. They could be driving into a trap. They could be looking at death. It was hardly a comforting thought.

There was potential, though.

She took a deep breath. "So we have two options: Go around it or head straight toward it."

Buddy huffed lightly. "Do we need options?"

Asher shrugged. "I don't know. Do we?"

His hand left his shotgun and he pointed toward the building. "If we go in there, we go in there blind."

"I know."

"So you want to risk that?"

"I believe you're the one who told me the Wasteland is full of risks."

"For good reasons. Curiosity isn't one of them."

"You can't tell me you weren't 'curious' about what I had to offer—if I really had a good source for fuel. That's why you turned around, and that's why we are here right now." The silence dragged on for a few moments, confirming Asher's words. Or perhaps Buddy was too infuriated to speak. Maybe a little of both.

Despite what caused the speechlessness, Asher decided to elaborate. "Look, its shelter. We can lay low and recuperate without worrying about scavengers or raiders or anything else that decides to kill us. More than likely, they'll be too scared to even come close. And, if it makes you feel any better, I'll get out first and inspect the area. You can sit in the car."

He finally looked at her, dissatisfaction etched onto his face. "Why would I agree to that?"

Asher raised a hand and began counting off the reasons with her fingers. "One, because you know it'll work. Two, you're exhausted just like me, and this opportunity sounds absolutely amazing. And three, I'll be endangering _my_ life, not yours. You can drive off if something bad happens. It's a nice little survival package just for you."

He shook his head. "Why put yourself at the disadvantage?"

"Just like I would be no use to you without a leg, you're no use to me with a lame arm and poison in your blood. So really, I could go either way at this point. I have better chances." She thumped the steering wheel. "I also hate driving. It's a wonder how you've dealt with this thing for so long."

He merely hummed.

"So yes or no?"

"That's your chance to take."

She adjusted the lapels of her jacket. "Fine. Then I say we go down there."

Buddy did not comment; therefore, Asher urged the muscle car down the slope and toward the building. Her eyes never stopped moving as she scanned the broken windows and the protruding slabs of concrete. Nothing moved; nothing revealed itself. It was undisturbed. From the outside, the structure seemed safe enough. At worst, it could be haunted by lost souls. Better than the living.

Asher eventually reached a comfortable distance from the building and came to a gentle halt. She reached behind her seat and snagged the revolver. "Take the wheel when I get out. Look for anything suspicious," she mumbled as she counted the bullets she had. When she finished, she met Buddy's gaze. "I'll let you know if it's safe or not. More than likely, if you hear gunshots, it's nothin' good. If you see something—well, do what you think is fit. I'm not responsible for any stupidity on your part."

With that, she popped open the door and stepped out of the muscle car. She did not wait for Buddy to say anything before shutting the door. He could figure out any questions he had. She had covered her bases.

The air was still warm, but a cool breeze ruffled her clothes and played with her hair—the latter rather irksome. She sidled toward the looming building, shoulders squared and the palms of her hands clammy. As she neared the closest broken window, she reached down and slid the machete free of her boot. If she was walking into a trap, she wanted the best weapons she had on her.

She ducked into the portal, avoiding the pointed glass and steel. The interior was bathed in darkness, only slivers of moonlight managing to slip through the cracks. She crept forward, boots stepping on unseen objects—sometimes rustling, sometimes crunching. She looked above her and saw torn-apart walls, dangling fabrics and picture frames, and exposed girders. It rose high into the air; and, at the top, she could catch a glimpse of the moon.

Then her knees struck something solid.

She shuffled backwards, squinting against the obscurities to see what she had hit. Vaguely, she was able to make out the outline of a table—or maybe it was a desk—lying on its side. A brief scan around her revealed a few more similar objects, all twisted and splintered. She wondered how many threats could be lurking behind them. She supposed she should find out.

It was a slow process, weaving through the maze of damaged furniture and tripping over the little items she could not see strewn on the ground. She did not wander too far, always keeping her entrance in view. The place was quiet. She encountered nothing but debris and sand and pieces of the past. Nothing life-threatening.

"Lay your weapons down. _Now_."

Or not.

 _Now what did you tell Buddy? 'I'm not responsible for any stupidity on your part?'_ her inner voice clipped.

Something sharp and cool touched the side of Asher's neck. Her gaze darted downward to see the tip of a knife.

 _Yes, well—neither am I._

Asher cursed anything and everything. Then she pointed the revolver up toward the sky and fired a shot.

Her world was pain.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **KatieBees:**_ I believe Asher will always have that apprehension of keeping Max around, if only because she is used to surviving on her own. She's taking a big risk that could cost her everything. Also, Max probably would, somehow, fight off the poison and go hunt her down. He can hold a grudge, and he can definitely fulfill it. And yes, these following days will certainly be interesting - whether for better or for worse.

As always, thank you for reviewing!

 _ **A:**_ Bit by bit, we will see Asher for who she is. It's a process, really. As for Max: We will see more of his thoughts next Chapter. For now, we only see some hints of change. Small, but powerful in their own way. It's progress.

Thank you for the review!

 _ **rachel101448:**_ Actually, if I hadn't made some critical changes, this story _would_ have taken place during _Fury Road_ and expanded on the aftermath. Not to say that the movie won't come into play, but it will not be till much later. Right now, we're just getting started. But I am glad to hear you are enjoying the plot so far, and Asher's character! I hope you liked the new installment, and thank you for reviewing!


	7. Chapter 7: I Owe You

**Author's Note:** Here we are with Chapter 7, picking up where we left off. Not too much to add for this update, so I will not keep you guys for long. As always, all of you are _amazing_ for the support you have given me, and applauds to you for helping to keep this story alive. You are awesome.

Enjoy!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not see in the series are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them.**_

* * *

 **Chapter VII:**

 **I Owe You**

 _"_ _We're all damaged in our own way. Nobody's perfect. We're all somewhat screwy. Every single one of us." –Johnny Depp_

* * *

The gunshot echoed like thunder, mixed with the loud crash of broken glass and a brief, sharp shout that was nearly lost in the cacophony. Max's hands hesitated in mid-action as his brain attempted to prioritize what he _should_ do—either start the engine and turn the wheel, or pick up his shotgun and open the car door. All four pieces were within easy reach; he merely had to choose one way or the other.

 _'_ _If you hear gunshots, it's nothin' good'_ —Spitfire had let the sentence to trail in a variety of ways. He could drive off and never look back. That was the original deal Spitfire had proposed, and that was the result she probably expected. She stated on several occasions that she did not trust him, his judgement, his motives or what he would do if she just blinked for too long. Reasonable fear on her part, he supposed, considering what horrors skulked around the Wasteland; and he himself was hardly a good-natured savior. There was, however, a hole in her beliefs that uprooted every unkind word she had spat at him: She had saved his life.

At the moment _she_ could have left him in the dust, she decided to call upon some buried goodwill and help him. Even more astonishing, she had freely given him water (though not without an underlying threat) and had returned his shotgun to his possession—a weapon given to the person she feared to turn her back to. He himself could not trust anyone so completely; therefore, he wondered why she would surrender her insecurities and give him a chance. That was a dangerous investment— _beyond_ risky. Just like entering that fallen building, alone, telling him to escape if anything suspicious arose.

Some change of heart.

He supposed he owed her. If not for keeping him alive, then for this foolish confidence she suddenly had for him. Too many people had put their faith in him, only to be betrayed by his inefficiency and cowardice. He did not need another ghost to haunt him; and he certainly did not want that ghost to be Spitfire. Despite the circumstances, he had believed her when she had said she would be his worst nightmare. She was a bundle of chaos now; he did not want to face her wrathful spirit.

The entire debate raced through his mind in mere seconds; however, when he finally decided to open the door and step out onto the sand, he felt as though he had sat for hours thinking on the matter. His eyes swept the entire area, even going so far as to peek behind him. When he saw no obvious surprises, he strode forward—or, at least, some unstable equivalent to that gait. His muscles felt unnaturally weary, and his skull seemed too lightweight. Even his joints held a faint, distinct ache that had not been present before. He deduced the problems to be some side effects to the poison—that he was healed, but his body was exhausted from fighting off the bane. If Spitfire had stumbled upon a large enemy group, then he doubted he was going to deal much damage.

 _'_ _You're no use to me with a lame arm and poison in your blood.'_ Too bad, for he was the only backup she had. She should have thought about that before jumping into the unknown.

He reached the entrance Spitfire had used—a large window frame with fragmented glass still attached to its sill—and slipped into the darkness. His eyes struggled to adjust to the deep shadows, and, to his great discomfort, he had to rely on the shafts of moonlight that shone through the cracks and niches of the structure. His ears tuned him into his surroundings much quicker, catching the crunch of glass and the mutter of unfiltered foul language. The voice he recognized to be Spitfire's, a few feet away and low to the ground—on the floor.

That did not match the vague, humanoid shape he saw standing against the night's blackness, cut diagonally, from shoulder to hip, by a sliver of light.

Max whipped the shotgun up and shifted closer, eyes staring down the barrel and at the figure. His boot landed on a shard of glass and shattered it—loudly. Silence descended instantaneously; then someone spoke, directly in front of him, and very close.

"Thought I told you to drive." A pause. An inhale. A curse word. "If you heard trouble."

Spitfire again. He glanced down and saw her vague outline sitting down and leaning backwards against some undefinable object. He could not see her expression, or any indication of her state. Just her seated position and her uneven breathing (which, now that she had halted her swearing, was more prominent).

Then a new voice jutted in, pitched and quivering. "I—I didn't—that's not what was supposed to _happen_. She shouldn't have—"

Max glided forward, keeping clear of Spitfire and approaching the figure. He did not lower the shotgun—not even a fraction. The figure seemed to notice, for he began to shuffle backwards through the fractured glass and meld with the darkness surrounding them. Then he tripped and fell, crashing into something that cracked and splintered and groaned—something wooden. Another beam of light splashed across the figure, revealing his face. Young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and gaunt, with big blue eyes that looked distraught and a recently broken nose—just a really lost kid.

Max was looming over him now, the double barrels of his shotgun still trained on the juvenile. He was not as tense with anticipation as before; the kid was not much of a threat to him. Max did not have to fear him; and he did have the willpower to kill him, either.

With a grunt, he motioned the shotgun to the darkness beyond them, toward the other side of the building and into the bleak unknown. He was telling the kid to get out of there and never to come back. The kid seemed to understand; however, when he reached toward his feet to grab something shiny—a blade, supposedly—Max quickly trapped the weapon beneath his boot. He mimicked his actions, more urgently this time. The kid could either persist or run while he had the chance. Luckily, he seized the latter, scrambled over the object he had destroyed and darted away, disappearing from Max's view.

Max scooped up the blade—a knife, he realized—and kept it on his person. Then he spun around and came back to the spot Spitfire had been sitting at. She was still there, unsurprisingly.

He asked, "Surprised again?"

"He was threatening me, I didn't know what would happen, so I warned you," she bit back. "I guess I scared him with the gun, since he attacked me."

He hummed. "You hurt bad?"

"He jabbed me pretty good."

"Where?"

"Lower back, right side."

Max nodded to himself. He would have to bring her into the light to see exactly how much damage had been dealt. "Can you walk?"

"Haven't tried."

He stretched out a hand. "Come on then. Get up."

She mumbled incoherent words, but she clasped his hand and hauled herself up. Max grimaced, his knees nearly buckling from the strain. Some strong poison. What those raiders had lacked in muscle, they replaced with deadly substances. Would have been smart if they were still alive.

When Spitfire got her footing, she favored her right side. The way her outline leaned to the left made that factor a standout. She was not going to walk very far if it pained her that greatly. They would have to cooperate.

Spitfire loosened her grip, but he did not. Rather, he pulled her arm up and around his shoulders.

"What? Are you a crutch now?" Spitfire snorted.

"You complainin'?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. Just didn't take you as the sentimental type." She paused. "I'm also surprised that poison hasn't screwed you up too much."

"Can't say my balance is great."

"Right. So if you drop me, I have every right to punch you."

"Not unless you want my help."

"Blackmail doesn't suit you."

He grunted, only partly amused.

Together, they shuffled across the cluttered floor and to the entrance they had used, twisting around the sharpened glass. The moonlight was brighter now, and Max, finally able to see properly, glanced down at Spitfire. She looked the same, aside from the mess of black hair on her head (a feature he was not quite accustomed to) and the deep creases that ran across her forehead, riddled with droplets of sweat. In the darkness, her voice had hinted at no discomfort; in the faint, silvery light, however, her features betrayed all. Max had a bit more urgency in his step as they stumbled toward his muscle car.

Once there, Max let Spitfire's arm slide off his shoulders, keeping a firm grip on her elbow as she lowered herself to the ground. Again, she mumbled to herself once she got settled—mostly garbled profanity.

He knelt down, relieving the pressure from his knees. "All right, let me see."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. He stared right back, eyebrows raised slightly in expectation.

Finally, she sighed and turned her back to him. She shrugged off her jacket, and Max caught a glimpse of the hole in the material. It was worse when he saw the underlying shirt, a ring of crimson around the tear. He grabbed the hem of the shirt and rolled it up, pealing it away from the wound and a few inches above it. His attention should have been drawn to the sliced skin and oozing blood, but that was not what immediately caught his eye. No, he was sidetracked by the scars.

They were not random, crisscrossing lines; they were orderly, stretching across the entirety of her back and ascending toward her shoulders, disappearing beneath her bunched shirt. Max quickly discerned the pattern: four lines with a fifth slashing diagonally through them, repeating over and over again. They were tally markings. A permanent counting system.

Spitfire shifted, exhaling sharply. "I'm guessing you're not looking at the wound," she murmured.

He lifted his gaze and saw her glancing over her shoulder. He grunted lightly and forced his focus on the stab wound. He carefully swiped the blood away and inspected the damage. It was deep, but clean. The kid must have shoved the blade all the way to the hilt. Scared was right; but, fortunately for Spitfire, it was only one strike, and the knife itself was small.

"You in a lot of pain?" he asked.

"Not a lot. Stings, mostly. May be the adrenaline coursing still." She huffed. "I'll probably feel it in the morning."

He hummed, thinking. "Probably be best if we cauterized it."

"Cauterize?" she parroted. "Like, start a fire, send smoke into the air and let everyone know we're here?"

"Don't need a fire."

He stood and opened the passenger door. He used to have a lighter; a rarity he had uncovered in an abandoned encampment a month ago. He wondered if it still worked, or if he still had it. Best he start searching.

After some digging, he uncovered the lighter in his jacket pocket (which, in turn, he found pinned by the supplies Spitfire had gathered from the raiders; he decided to worry about it later). He pulled out of the car and glanced back at Spitfire. She had let the shirt lower, and she had a hand on her back, applying pressure to the wound.

He drew out the knife he had taken from the kid and wiped both sides of the blade on his pant leg, cleaning away the blood and grime. Then he popped open the lighter, flicked it twice and watched the flame flare to life. He held the knife to the orange sliver and waited.

After a few moments, he told Spitfire, "It's gonna hurt."

She pulled her hand away from her wound briefly and reclaimed her discarded jacket. "I'll just bite down on this."

More time dwindled. They both remained resolutely silent.

Spitfire, leaning to the side and resting her shoulder on the muscle car, finally broke the peace: "So aren't you gonna ask?"

Max did not look up from his project. "About what?"

"You know," she mumbled. When Max failed to acknowledge her, she exemplified her meaning by jabbing a thumb over her shoulder and toward her back. "About those."

"None of my business," he grumbled.

"I probed into _your_ business."

"I know."

She peered at him again. "You're not gonna use that against me?"

"No, because I don't care. Why you have a tally on your back means nothing to me." He turned the knife at a different angle. "Besides, I'm about to burn your open wound. You'll hate me well enough afterwards."

"Yeah, probably." Then, in a lower tone, she added, "Thanks, anyway. For not asking."

He only grunted. The response seemed to satisfy her, though.

Eventually, Max pulled the heated blade away and closed the lighter, banishing the orange glow. He tapped her forearm, and she moved her bloodied hand away from the wound. He rolled her shirt up—pointedly ignoring the scars—and gripped her shoulder firmly.

"Ready for this?" he asked, holding the knife in steeled preparation.

"Mm-hmm," she hummed back, muffled, signally she was biting down on her jacket.

Max did not give Spitfire a verbal warning. He only squeezed her shoulder then brought the hot knife to her flesh. Her spine arched, and a long, stifled cry told him just how much it hurt. He retracted the blade after two seconds, then repeated the process—a second time, followed by a third. After the fourth contact, he finally the put the knife aside and let it simmer in the sand.

He reached for the scarf wrapped around his arm—the same scarf that Spitfire had worn, he had discovered earlier that afternoon—and unwound it. It had not touched his own puncture; therefore, he deemed it safe. It was the best bandage he could provide, anyway.

Around her torso the scarf went, the ends tied at her side. Spitfire did not comment, nor did she move much other than slump forward, resting an elbow on her knee. Max let her regain her composure, rising to his full height and collecting the knife and lighter. He made to circle around the car and go to the driver's side, aiming to rearrange after Spitfire had fiddled with the vehicle's interior; but Spitfire stopped him by speaking up.

"Why go through that trouble to help me?"

He paused mid-stride and turned to her. "I could ask you the same."

She shrugged—a very small movement. "I don't know. Guess it didn't feel right, leaving you there." She peered up at him. "But don't go thinking I have some sort of soft spot for you. That's not how it works. I need you, you need me. That's all there is."

Max nodded, scanning the land. "Keepin' it professional?"

"Have to."

He hummed, dipping his head again. "Well, you promised me something. Promise's no good if you're gone."

"You mean dead," she retorted, bitterly yet strangely somberly.

He pursed his lips. "Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly.

The conversation ended, and Max proceeded to walk around the muscle car.

He was just slipping on his jacket when he saw Spitfire stand. He watched her closely, noting her slow movements. She was taking precautions, not wanting to agitate her wound. She was wise in that respect.

Tugging at his sleeves, he asked absently, "How you feelin' now?"

"Like I was—" She stopped herself abruptly, earning Max's immediate attention. He caught her upper lip twitch before she continued, saying, "I could be better."

His gaze lingered; and after a few silent seconds, she met his stare and lifted a single eyebrow questioningly. At last, he grunted and returned to his car. Quite honestly, he did not care what she had been about to say; however, he wondered what force could possibly keep her from speaking her mind. She had never been afraid to do so before. She was not overly considerate.

"So are we going back in there?"

He looked at her through the windshield, but she was not facing him. Her head was swiveled toward the fallen building.

"Yes," he responded.

He heard her snort. "Warmed up to my proposition?"

"We're not in great condition. We can recover here." He withdrew from his vehicle again, one of the pistols in his hands. "Would have preferred if you hadn't got stabbed, though."

"Yeah, you and me both," she groused. "But nobody else seems to be around, so I took care of your threat. Indirectly." She made some flippant, undefinable gesture with her hand. "Now, why are we just standing here?"

He jerked his head toward the building. "If you can, go on ahead. I'm pulling the car closer."

She nodded, pushing away from his muscle car. She gave him one final remark: "If you leave me now, I will be thoroughly pissed."

Then she trudged away, gait awkward but functional enough to carry her forward. He huffed and shook his head. He never understood her humor—a combination of sarcasm, hostility and dismalness. He himself did not joke; but even he had to question her self-amusement.

He slipped the pistol into a jacket pocket before plopping down into the driver's seat. The engine grumbled as he turned the keys, and, with pleasing familiarity, he grasped the wheel and gently pressed down on the gas pedal. He rolled forward, passing Spitfire three-quarters of the way there, and turned the car parallel to the building once he neared it. Satisfied, he shifted gears, shut off the engine and reentered the night air.

Spitfire arrived shortly after, but made no comment as she rounded the car's bumper and entered through one of the broken windows, melding with the darkness. Max snatched up his shotgun, a canteen and one of the mysterious cans Spitfire had garnered. Then he followed after Spitfire.

He had barely taken a step into the building when Spitfire called, "Wait."

Straightaway, he stopped, and his grip on his shotgun tightened painfully.

Spitfire's arm shot up from a few feet away, illuminated by a beam of moonlight. "For your convenience, I'm over here."

With an exasperated sigh, he moved toward her outstretched appendage and found her reclined comfortably against a set of crooked cabinetry, half of her body in the moon's silvery rays.

She faced him, the light sharply contrasting her features. "Good for you?"

He grunted, taking a seat. She did not ask for an elaboration. She was catching on to his mannerisms.

He proffered the canteen to her, and she took it wordlessly. Meanwhile, he fished out the little knife, cleaned it again and fiddled with the can, punching holes along the edge. Thirty seconds later, he had the lid pried open and was examining the can's contents: Stalks of some sort, half-a-finger long and wading in water. He took one and bit into it. Bland, unsurprisingly, but substantial. He had had worse.

He set the open can between him and Spitfire—open for consumption. Not a second later, she was returning the canteen to him. He waved it off, not interested. She set it down, then, next to the can—available at any time.

They ate in silence, staring in opposite directions. Max's eyes adjusted to the building's dark interior, and the unknown shadows became more discernable. Truly, there was not much to admire. Toppled and snapped wooden desks; scattered, randomized items; thousands of glistening shards of glass (twice, he had to sweep away a piece prodding into his thigh); and obliterated equipment that no longer served a purpose in the Wasteland. It was no surprise that the building had been left alone: It was nothing but a poor-man's skeleton. The only quality it had was security—a potential Spitfire had recognized. She just went into the plan— _her_ plan—too carelessly.

Now he was weathering through the rest of the poison's effects, and Spitfire was sporting a new, crippling injury. The targets on their backs just grew bigger and brighter.

For a moment, he recalled the scars scrawled on Spitfire's skin—the tally kept on her back. How she got them was none of his concern, nor what they were supposed to be counting. No, he merely pondered the notion that she was on the run from something—or someone—and he was the getaway car. He doubted she marked herself, despite whatever viable reasons. Someone else must have done it. Question was, were they looking for her? Were those numbers important?

 _'_ _I need you, you need me'_ —partnerships always had that one catch. Maybe Max had found hers.

He spared Spitfire a quick glance, noticing her unusual quietness. Her head was leaning back against the cabinetry; her jacket was draped across her legs; and her chest rose up and down evenly. She was asleep—despite everything, she was asleep.

His turn to keep watch.

He decided he did not mind.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **A:**_ Asher has her moments with her 'inner voice.' She certainly finds it annoying; but, sometimes, you have to wonder who the better judge is - who's right and who's wrong, so to say. And yes, Max is back! Probably not the greatest follow-up to his poisoning, but...it's the Wasteland, and he's with Asher. What does he expect? Thank you for your review!

 ** _KatieBees:_** The true question here is: When is Asher _not_ in trouble? She's certainly not afraid to take risks, that's for sure. As for their conversations: I love writing them. They are always straddling that line of hating and appreciating each other, and it can change in the blink of an eye. It is certainly an interesting dynamic. As always, I appreciate the review!

 ** _rachel101448:_** First off, you really hit the nail on the head with what I had in mind for this Chapter. Seriously. I did not want too much chaos going on in this Chapter, so I kept the focus on Max and Asher and how they handled the situation. Plus, many hints. Everywhere. Be on the lookout... And yes, Asher does have her conflicts with her 'inner voice.' Kind of her morality and her survival and her instincts clashing together. She tries not to listen to it, but she has her moments. Like Chapter 1, for example, when it convinced her to accept Max's offer. Just know it will _always_ have a comment to make; we'll just have to see how Asher responds to it. Thank you for the review!

 ** _Laura:_** Not too much madness (ironic, yes); just Asher and Max bonding time (if you can call it that). There's always a calm before a storm, though. I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reviewing!

 ** _funwithstark:_** I'm glad you like it! Hope Chapter 7 was just as good!


	8. Chapter 8: One Word Too Many

**Author's Note:** I am very happy to have Chapter 8 written and posted now. I apologize for the wait: I have been a little preoccupied with some Comp writing and I had to put my stories to the side for a bit. But, I am back and I am hoping to get some updates out. Also, I'll admit that I really enjoyed writing this Chapter. Asher and Max actually get some progress (in other words, no punches were thrown). There is hope yet. Maybe they can make amends. We shall see.

Also, I have drawn some influence from the _Mad Max_ video game. No big spoilers here, and there probably won't be for several more Chapters (if there will be, I will be sure to mark the beginning of the Chapter with a **warning** ). No, I do not intend to throw these two into the plot of the game; however, it will have a background effect for later. Much later. Don't worry, you will see what I mean; but not until the time has come. So the worst you will see is a few name references. Good? Excellent.

As always, thank you to every follower, favorite and reviewer for your support and feedback. You have no idea how much it means to me, and I appreciate every email I get in my inbox. Thank you all! Enjoy Chapter 8!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to.**_

* * *

 **Chapter VIII:**

 **One Word Too Many**

 _"_ _The two words 'information' and 'communication' are often used interchangeably, but they signify quite different things. Information is giving out; communication is getting through." –Sydney J. Harris_

* * *

"You've been awake this whole time, Buddy?"

The question drew Max from his listless staring at the brightening eastern horizon to Spitfire sitting a foot away from his left. He met her gaze—noting the exhaustion still tugging at her eyelids—and grunted half-heartedly. She nodded, accepting the answer; however, the sourness that twisted her features expressed her displeasure. Already beginning with an impertinent attitude. Max was less than thrilled.

Spitfire tugged her jacket off her legs and set it to the side. Then, using her left hand to grip the edge of the counter and her right hand to awkwardly cradle her wound, she slowly rose to her feet. Why she was eager to move around, Max could never guess; however, he did not favor the idea, especially with her freshly cauterized wound. Immediately, he stood and locked Spitfire's elbow in a steel grip before she could wander away. Her suppressed grimace morphed into an outraged glare as she whipped her head in his direction.

"I'm fine," she gritted. "Let me walk."

"All you're gonna do is hurt yourself more."

"I've got a handle on this. Just let me do what I need to do."

His mind urged him to deny her request; but instead, he released her. He was not her caretaker, and she obviously did not want him to be one. She could experiment. She could see how far she could go—how much she could accomplish. If she damaged her injury further, that would be her problem. He warned her, she refused, and now he was going to sit back and watch.

With shuffling steps, Spitfire traveled the length of the counter, keeping her back to Max and a hand on the counter's surface. When she reached the end, she gently pushed off and adopted a careful gait, gliding toward some undiscernible destination. Her journey was cut short, however, when her right leg wavered, making her stumble into a crumbling wall. She muttered under her breath, pressing her shoulder into her new support and peering down at her injury, an accusing glint in her eyes.

Sighing, Max rejoined her. He lifted her shirt up, pulled the scarf-binding away and checked the wound for himself. The skin was certainly not healed, retaining its charred appearance; but the wound was still closed. It just hurt, like he had predicted. Spitfire knew he was correct, too; she was just too prideful to admit to defeat. Oddly enough, Max understood that feeling; and likewise, he would never admit to that empathy.

"You need to rest this," he restated, worded more blatantly.

"I did," she retorted, yanking down her shirt. She seemed to regret the sharp movement, if her wince spoke any measures.

Max frowned disapprovingly. "You're not gonna heal overnight."

"And sittin' around won't get us much progress. Wouldn't you rather be on the road or something? We both have places to be, don't we?" He could not deny the truth to that statement; therefore, he remained quiet. She knew she had caught him. "Good. Now move so I can try again."

She went to shove him out of the way, but he caught her by the forearm and kept her stationary. "If you're going anywhere, you're going to the car. Otherwise, you can sit."

She rolled her eyes in a flippant gesture, but the twitch of her upper lip spoke of her inner ire. "What? You a doctor now? You know, I've managed just fine without you hovering by my side."

"Agitating wounds is 'managing fine'? Getting stabbed is 'managing fine'?" he returned coolly. There was a truth to his words, too; but, again, Spitfire was resilient.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," she growled under her breath. Then, louder, she said, "You're the one who wanted to face those raiders, hand-to-hand. And you know what? You got yourself poisoned, and I had no idea what to do. You, Buddy, were very close to death—whether I left you or kept you."

"And I contemplated driving off when you fired that bullet. Do you know that?"

"Yeah, I do. I expected you to."

He studied her, eyes squinted. "Then why risk it?"

"I already told you. We needed a solid, covered place to stay, and you were still knocked up on that poison."

"No, why did you warn me when you expected me to leave you at the first sign of trouble?"

Her lips twisted in a variety of deformities, as if she had eaten something sour. She gave a jerky shrug with her left shoulder, now mindful of her injured right side. "I don't know."

Max shook his head. "That's not good enough."

With a scowl, she tugged at her trapped arm. Max had forgotten he had had a hold on her, and he promptly released her. Absently, she rubbed her forearm, staring distantly off to the west. "What do you want, then?" she asked bitterly. "Some heartfelt confession? That I believed you would come barging in anyway, like some fairytale knight saving the damsel in distress? If that's the case, then I'm gonna have to burst your bubble: When I came in here, I did not rely on you. In here, I was alone again, falling back into the wanderer routine I've had for the past few years. When I was caught, I knew no one was going to come and help me, because you would have no idea what was going on and I doubted you would poke your head in here. So I sent you off. I gave you a good reason to leave, with no guilt to hold you back. At least one of us would make it out fine." She shrugged again, and leaned back until she was reclining against the wall. "Don't know what you would have done about fuel then, especially if you don't know the land. But you've come this far. I'm sure you could have _managed_."

She tore her gaze from the west and met his eyes. Max did not flinch; he just stared right back, even and calm. In the back of his mind, like a whisper riding the wind, he could hear the ghosts chanting their questions and screaming their desperation. He did not have to hear their exact words to know they were rioting against him—that Spitfire's explanation struck a familiar ache. He was tempted to slip away, not wishing to confront the issue and give his failures an open invitation into his mind; however, he feared that the seclusion would serve as a welcoming beacon, too. There was no chance for him to escape this. He might as well finish what he started.

"But then I appeared," he remarked, blinking away the phantoms that encroached his vision.

"Yeah, you did." She snorted lightly, shaking her head. "And you know what? I kinda hate you for it."

He did verbally respond. He just scrunched his brow and waited for a follow-up reason.

Spitfire did not disappoint. "It's not often that someone has my back, and I don't know how to pay you back for what you did." She pursed her lips, ducked her head briefly, then looked back up at him. "So, just, thank you. That's the best I got."

Max nodded, shifting his weight and letting his eyes rove around the building. Seemed like a long time since he had heard those two words. Even Spitfire's muttered 'thanks' from the previous night was more for his respect for her privacy. Now, she was thanking him for helping her in a time of need—for not leaving her behind. He told himself that his decision to come to her aid had been a remittance for her saving his life; however, for a moment, he let himself believe he had done something good—something right after so many wrongs.

"No. That's good," he said at last, his head still bobbing faintly. "Very good."

Her shoulders visibly dropped, as if she had been tense the entire time—and maybe she had been, preparing for a brawl. He, too, had been defensive, well aware that Spitfire could lash out at any given moment; although, a part of him doubted she would, considering her state. The fight was gone now. They could put away their weapons.

"Sit down," he said, "and we can…talk."

She consented this time, nodding. She glided forward to reclaim her seat, and Max instinctually clasped her arm again and supported her all the way to the counter. There was no shoving, no cursing, no glares—just a short walk and a muted atmosphere.

Spitfire sat down just as slowly as she had stood up, favoring her right side. Once she was settled, Max returned to his own spot and sat, legs bent and his good arm slung across his knees. He let the air clear between them for a few minutes before asking a pressing question—a question he had retained since last night, and now had the courage to bring up.

"Is someone after you?"

She did not even bat an eye or ask what he meant. She seemed to have expected this conversation, sooner or later. "Not that I know of. I'm not important, if that's what you're worried about. Just a wanderer with a botched history," she replied, prodding a broken desk leg with the toe of her boot. "And even if someone _was_ sniffing me out, they would have a very hard time finding where I went."

"Been to a lot of places?"

"More than you probably."

"Doubt it."

She smirked and laughed. Then, falling back into solemnity, she reasserted, "Yes, a lot of places and lot of names. Everyone knows me as someone else, and that makes tracking me a real doozy. So, no, I think I'm in a good position."

He gave a light grunt, filing away that piece of information. Spitfire was how he would remember her; anyone else would give a different name. Seemed easier to not give any identification. Certainly not as messy that way. "Then why are you so eager to leave?" he asked.

"The Wasteland doesn't care about any of us. It's not gonna wait for our wounds to heal. If you get knocked down, then you can either get back up or lay down." She looked at him pointedly. "And die like a dog."

"I'm not the Wasteland," he remarked. "I don't set expectations."

She sighed and shook her head. "You need to stop acting like you're my friend, Buddy. You can't be that."

"Maybe not. But I'm not your enemy, either."

"No, you're not," she admitted, staring unseeingly forward, as if mesmerized. "Grouchy, yes, but you're not aiming to take anything from me. Just bartering. Haven't killed me yet, either." She gave a thoughtful pause, then added wryly, "Of course, we're not counting our first meeting."

He snorted, somewhat amused. He had no doubts that Spitfire heard the little noise, but she did not make an effort to comment. She kept her lips sealed, and a comfortable silence settled between them. Max enjoyed the long pause, using the time to retreat into his thoughts.

Spitfire was not being chased; therefore, imminent capture was not a concern he should have on his mind. Even more beneficial, she had set herself up to be untraceable. To some, that fact alone would be suspicious, especially if she did not have to worry about a threat hunting her down; however, Max understood her unspoken motives. She kept all relations distant and impersonal. Just now, she had reinforced her rule to confiscate the title of _friend_ from him. When the time came to separate, she did not to be attached to him; or, worse, if he did not survive the journey, she did not want to cope with loss (above all else, he could relate to the latter). Hence, he did have many doubts about her truthfulness on the subject.

Her fretfulness sparked curiosity, though. Spitfire was a wild, spiteful, confident woman who believed herself to be in control of every situation. Surely the Wasteland did not intimidate her as much as she had alluded. If she was the wanderer she proclaimed herself to be, then the desolate world she traversed was a lifestyle that she should be accustomed to. No, her feelings had to be connected to her scars—her tally markings.

He was tempted to probe further—once again, like Spitfire had expected him to do—but he refrained. Her scars concerned only her. Him pressing her for answers would merely result in conflict, he knew—a repeat of Spitfire using Jessie's name as a weapon, just reversed positions. He did not want that outcome; therefore, he decided to leave the topic untouched. Spitfire would tell him if she ever wished to share her scars' stories.

"So you mentioned you wanted to talk," Spitfire hummed, drawing Max's attention to the present. He looked to her, watching as she carefully pulled on her jacket. "Wanna get to that now, Buddy?"

Max let his previous thoughts drift away, focusing on this new shift in direction. What did he want to discuss? He knew where they were going—west, until Spitfire said otherwise—their supplies were replenished and they were not being hunted. They were ready to cut through the Wasteland and reach their wanted destination. What else could possibly be left on his mind?

Apparently there was one particular question—a newly developed inquiry that spawned randomly and left his lips unintentionally. "Where you gonna want to go after I get my fuel?"

Spitfire tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips. Max wondered if he had caught her by surprise for once. "Haven't decided," she responded, shrugging her left shoulder. "I might just stay there and let you go on. I don't think anyone there would object."

"Does this guy owe you a lot of favors?"

"Well," she drawled, rubbing the back of her neck. "If you really want to know the truth, it's not favors I'm spending. Just kindness. The _guy_ would do a lot for me, charge-free."

Max arched an eyebrow, looking at Spitfire disbelievingly. "Did you save his life or somethin'?" he asked. He did not know a single soul who would be _kind_ without some form of repayment. The Wasteland had a give-and-take system, and hardly anyone deviated from that custom—unless, of course, it was to simply _take_.

"No, I don't do a lot savin'. Consider yourself a lucky exception." She swiveled her head to look at him, frown pulling the corners of lips down. "This guy calls himself Abrahamus, and he's a real odd one. He thinks that the world will go back to normal someday. You know, the end of thirst, the end of war, the end of sand and salt—optimistic gibberish. And his solution to bring about this healing? Give everyone second chances and keep his people under this wrap of 'sanity.' I don't know how he keeps the place so grand without coming under fire, especially when his defenses are lackluster."

Max pondered the details for a long time. He attempted to imagine the hopeful scene, but nothing formed. His mind went blank. Most clans did not look back to the Old World; they merely waded through the Ruined World.

Spitfire seemed to understand his dilemma. She laughed softly. "Yeah, I know. It's pretty crazy, even for a torn world like this one and a muddled mind like mine. But I took shelter there for a while—longer than any other place since the people were so willingly to provide for outsiders. I saw what the place had to offer and the people that lived there and the man that led them through the horrors. It was real, and it was abnormal. I wasn't fond of the aura that hung in the air. Very strange indeed."

Max, despite his lack of knowledge or experience, found himself agreeing. "If you don't like the place, then why go back?" he pressed, brow furrowed with uneasy curiosity.

Her frown deepened. "Look, I know it doesn't sound like the greatest plan, but I have my reasons. I may not care for the place, but Abrahamus and the others cared about me—in their own, second-chances view. I was free to ask for anything, as long as it was within reason."

"But then you left," Max pointed out. "Can't imagine that went well for you."

"Actually, no," Spitfire mused, raising her eyebrows and staring off into the distance, as if she were reliving the moment. "Abrahamus was disappointed I wanted to leave, but he did not try to stop me. He just told me to return whenever I felt safe enough to trust him." She huffed, shaking her head. "I guess he saw right through my acting. I never believed what he said. I just smiled and nodded and spoke a few praiseful words. Everyone else was convinced. No one else saw the dystopia his clan was becoming; they couldn't see past the illusionary utopia."

"No one?"

"Well, there were a few stragglers, but what are they gonna do? Abrahamus has many loyal followers that, whether he knows it or not, have a bloodlust. If he is struck down, then they will gladly hunt down the culprit." Spitfire interlaced her fingers and, uncharacteristically, twiddled her thumbs. "Someone would have to have an influential way with words to turn the people's hungry eyes on their leader."

Max hummed. "And I'm supposed to get my gasoline from this mess?"

"Sure. Just smile and nod your head."

"Like you did?"

She crossed her arms then, a disgruntled note entering her tone. "Look, I wasn't in the best condition when I stumbled into his territory. I had to do the best I could to survive." She narrowed her eyes. "You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same. When you're on your own and low on resources, you become desperate. You're fortunate because you have a car to get you places faster. I have two feet and bar of stamina."

"Maybe." He shifted and ran a hand through his beard. "But you don't want to lose yourself in desperation. That'll take you places you don't want to go."

"Too late for that. I have twenty-eight years in me, and a lot of it is speckled with regret," she mumbled. She looked down at her feet. "Besides, aren't you a bit desperate, too? You need gasoline and you're placing your hopes on my word. You don't know a lot about me, Buddy. From your standpoint, you're risking a lot by trusting me."

"You plan to go back on your word or something?"

"If I was, I wouldn't tell you." Her mood became solemn again. "But honestly, betraying you isn't in my best interest. Unless you give me a sound reason not to trust _you_ , then I'm willing to cooperate." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Are you?"

Conversation lulled as Max mulled over Spitfire's question. They had spoken enough—especially Spitfire, who had given a considerable chunk of information about where she was guiding them and even about herself. He was not ungrateful, but he was left wondering _why_. Spitfire did not share unless she was exchanging hateful words or sarcastic comments; however, at the moment, she seemed to have dulled around the edges. Maybe their respective injuries had humbled her; or maybe his willingness to help her had changed her perspective. Truly, there was no guaranteed reason. Spitfire was unpredictable; and he had to decide whether to trust her or not.

For the hundredth time, Max wondered what—and who—he had become involved with; and he wondered if he would regret everything, just like so many times before. He had to gamble.

"I can work with that," he said.

Spitfire nodded, one corner of her lips turned up. "For better or for worse."

Max could not agree more.

* * *

Soon after their exchange, they were ready to depart. Max offered Spitfire his assistance, and she accepted the help with a jerked nod, propping an arm on his shoulder and following him out of the fallen building. The muscle car sat in the blazing morning sun, its rugged appearance a welcome sight to Max. He would always appreciate a good car over any fortress. He felt at ease in the driver's seat, protected by the metal exterior and able to make a quick getaway if necessary. He could not live without it.

He guided Spitfire to the passenger side. She opened the door and entered his car, grumbling unintelligible words under her breath. Max decidedly ignored the babble, figuring she only spoke in pained curses. Unfortunately, she would have to endure the agony until the wound could mend itself; and, if she wanted a smooth recovery, she would have to take extra precaution to keep from agitating the injury or, worse, deriving an infection. Seems he would be playing nurse for a while. The role did not excite him whatsoever.

Rounding the front of the car, he went to his usual seat, reclining into the cushion with warm familiarity. He replaced the shotgun in his lap (double barrels pointed away from Spitfire), curled a hand around the top of the wheel and started the engine.

"Anything else you need to do?" he asked casually, relishing in the rumble of his vehicle.

Spitfire snorted. "No." She gave him a sly glance. "I'll let you know when something comes to mind, though."

"Mm."

He pulled away from the building and drove beside it, eyes set at its obliterated peak. Once at his destination, he swung wide, directing his car west and applying gradual pressure to the gas pedal. The sand sprayed up from the wheels and the wind whipped around the body. Already, Max could feel the tension ebbing from his stiff frame, and his head seemed to clear with every mile that passed under the wheels. Even if his ghosts were to arise at that moment, Max would not care. When he drove, he could keep them at bay. He could focus on the present rather than the past. He could indulge in a little slice of peace—and even more so now that he and Spitfire had settled their differences. He did not have to wait for an imminent argument or test-of-strength. Everything was abnormally calm.

When the fallen building had disappeared from his rearview mirror, Max decided to voice a deliberating question: "How well do you know the lands around Abrahamus' clan?"

Spitfire made a little humming sound, keeping her eyes glued to the passenger window. "Decently. There are a few landmarks that'll tell me if we're close or if we passed it. Also, it's on flatlands, so there won't be much to obstruct it from view."

"And we're on course?"

"If we're going west, then yes. Eventually, we will have to go a bit south, since I started moving north when I went east."

Max processed that knowledge, dwelling on the latter part of Spitfire's answer. She had traveled east. "Why leave an area you knew?"

He heard her sigh and saw her recline her head against the headrest. She was still watching the dunes roll by and avoiding his gaze entirely. "I thought I would find something better in the east—something other than salt and ruin. I guess I wasted my time." She paused; but before Max could speak, she continued, asking, "What're you gonna do when you get your fuel?"

Returning his earlier query, he realized. Was he willing to share as much as she had? A part of him gave a firmly-rooted 'no'; another part of him wondered if telling her mattered; and a miniscule part of him questioned whether he knew where he was going.

"I'm going to the Plains of Silence," was what left his mouth.

Spitfire whipped her head around, eyes wide and features blanched. "You're what?"

Max shifted in his seat. "You heard me."

"That's suicide if you go out there. You know that, right? _No one_ comes back, whether he's on foot, in a car or on a bike." She shook her head furiously, either rattled by his statement or pissed about his decision. " _Why_ would you want to go there? There is _nothing_ out there. It's called the Plains of Silence for a reason."

"Have you ever been out there?" he challenged.

"Me?" She laughed bitterly. "I would die in less than a week."

"Then you don't know what's out there."

"I can't believe this—I can't believe _you_ ," she snapped. So much for peace. "You criticize me to being desperate, and now you're saying you're gonna drive out into the Plains of Silence. I don't care how much fuel you can con out of Abrahamus; it won't be enough to get you across that stretch of Wasteland."

"Doesn't matter," he retorted mildly. "I've been plannin' to cross it for a while now."

"You mean you're plannin' to die out there." She stared at him, jaw set and face taut. "Is that really what you want to do? Is that all I'm helping you do?"

"Does it really concern you?" he shot back, tearing his gaze from the road to meet her conflicted hazel eyes. "You'll be off somewhere else. You're not coming with me."

Her lips formed a thin line, and she turned her attention to the sand stretched out before them. After a few tense moments, she said, "I guess not." She crossed her arms over her chest. "But you better find something out there, Buddy. Something real good."

Max was not sure whether to take her words as a mockery or an encouragement; and, honestly, the tone did not matter to him. What struck him as odd was her reaction to his plans—the _care_ that hid behind her objections. What had happened to being impersonal? What had happened to maintaining the distance between them?

He would not contemplate it. They still had several days to go before they finally separated. This was just a flux. They had let too many words pass between them, like they were the companions they were not supposed to be. It did not matter that Spitfire housed herself in a borderline-cult, or that he traveled to the Plains of Silence. When the time arrived, neither of them would care. That was the plan.

Max would never admit to the problem, but inwardly, he knew that plan had already begun to derail.

Maybe Spitfire's eagerness to leave had not been because of her scars; rather, she knew their steely partnership was softening—and she was afraid of that. Max supposed he was, too. He had failed too many people to include anyone else in his life. And despite all the frustrations Spitfire had given him, he had no desire to see her dead.

Their professional strategy was crumbling; and they had no control over it.

Max nearly flattened the gas pedal as he urged his muscle car to go faster.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 ** _Oddmosis:_** Thank you! I hope you liked Chapter 8.

 _ **rachel101448:**_ Asher's scars will be a little mystery; but, yes, we will eventually discover their origin and purpose (and there may be hints every here and there...). As for the kid: I supposed it seemed more...effective, I should say? Not everyone in the Wasteland is insane and is out-to-kill-every-living-thing; some are just trying to get by without conflict - and, even more deliberating, some of them are young and never chose to be enwrapped in the chaos. Max probably didn't make that kid's life any better by taking his knife, but you're right: The Wasteland isn't a kind place, and you can't turn your back on people. You're asking for punishment if you do.

And yes, Asher did get the rest she needed; but she's not one to linger longer than necessary. In her mind, her wound's not gonna heal fast enough before they should leave, so she believes hitting the road now won't be much different. Whether that is a smart decision is questionable; but again, she's the restless type. So is Max, though probably in different ways.

Thank you for reviewing!

 _ **Radio Free Death:**_ I appreciate the feedback, and I'll be sure to watch my use of semicolons (I do tend to be partial to them). As for Asher: She has an attitude for sure. She will mellow, though, and she will learn from her mistakes. She still has a long road ahead of her. Thank you very much for the review!

 ** _DieselCrane:_** I'm truly flattered! Asher does have a bold personality (mingled with a bit of her own insanity), but I never want it to go completely unchecked. Besides, I doubt Max would let her get away with it. He can only put up with it for so long. Hence, their tense relationship. They will learn and adapt though; this Chapter was just a stepping stone. We shall see where it goes... But thank you so much for the review! I'm super glad you are enjoying the story so far, and I hope not to disappoint.

 _ **reddevil47:**_ Step by step, they are learning to cope with each other. As for the _Fury Road_ plot: we still have quite a ways to go before we reach that point. Asher and Max's journey has only just begun. Thank you for reviewing!

 _ **thebrontide:**_ Thank you! Hope you enjoyed the newest update!


	9. Chapter 9: Out of Reach

**Author's Note:** So the latter part of this Chapter was written under the influence of an exemplification essay and _The Walking Dead_ marathon. Amazingly, it worked out well with the plotline I am following, so I cannot complain. Nothing much to say for this update, so I will leave you all to Chapter 9. Thank you to all who followed, favored, and reviewed this story, and I hope you enjoy!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to.**_

* * *

 **Chapter IX:**

 **Out of Reach**

" _I am drawn to those parts; I like the tough girls because they are not tough. It's a veil; it's a disguise. It's defense. At the core, everybody is human, everybody is fragile, everybody is terrified, and the fear is what propels you to be tough." –Tatiana Maslany_

* * *

 _He's a dead man walking._

Asher blinked long and hard, turning her head slightly to look out the window. She drummed her fingers lightly on the door, keeping in faint tune to the rumble of the muscle car's powerful engine. Meanwhile, her right foot bounced up and down anxiously, consequently jarring her dagger and making it painfully obvious against her leg.

Barely two days ago, she had contemplated killing Buddy during his poison-induced sleep. And what was her reward? For him to drive endlessly to the Plains of Silence until he ran out of gas, water, and food? Surely he did not truly believe he could cross that hopeless expanse—surely his innate desire to survive would warn him he was making a fatal mistake. Was he that insane? Was he completely lost to the living world?

She could neither confirm nor deny that probability. She herself was not completely grounded. How could she judge that he fared any worse than she?

His plan still perturbed her, though. She knew he would kill himself someday—just not this way. She figured his end would come about while he tried to do some good deed, like walking into that building when she had given him the signal to run. Granted, she was the one who walked out of that ordeal injured, but that did not justify his heroic stupidity. Worse outcomes could have arisen simply because he wanted to help her.

Yet she had been the one to put them in that position. She sent herself into that building alone, confident that her plan would be flawless and brilliant. And if Buddy had not followed the origin of her gunshot, then she would be sitting helplessly amongst the debris, perhaps accompanied by the terrified kid who had stabbed her. Considering her current comfort and stability, reclining in the passenger seat of a tough and fast vehicle and on peaceful terms with a strong ally, the aforementioned circumstance would have been absolutely disastrous.

 _But now you're depending on him. You have no advantage here. None of this would have happened if you had just cut his throat._

How could she be promised that definite result? Whether she dumped Buddy or not, she may have still entered that building.

She would not have fired that warning shot, though. She would not have scared the kid, or maybe she would have spun on him and shot him instead. Something different would have happened, but there was no guarantee she would still be breathing. Besides, she could not reverse time and try another route—and a part of her did not want to.

Despite whatever resentment she held toward Buddy for swallowing the majority of her water and encouraging her to form this bartering deal with him, she could not say she hated him. No, she hated the monsters that ravaged the Wasteland, whether they led clans or scurried amongst the dunes, lonesome and vicious. She had the displeasure of meeting those people—of _knowing_ them by name and face and wrongdoing. Buddy did not quite fit into that dreadful category. He had some kind spark in his heart that kept him from becoming consumed with maliciousness. She saw it, both in his actions and in the sliver of sanity that usually glimmered in his eyes. He was still gruff and blunt, of course, but those were normal traits to have while living in the Wasteland. It was that rare goodness that set him apart. How could Asher hate that one quality that set him apart from the terrible people?

No, she could not kill him—not then, not now, and not later. Perhaps that made her weak, not being able to cut off a temporary partner simply because he was not completely ruthless. Her inner voice told her she was, and a part of her believed the criticism. She was relying too heavily on Buddy and lending her trust too easily. She may not be betraying him, but maybe she was betraying herself by erasing the strict rules she had initially created—to keep herself cold and distant. She was trapping herself.

Asher reached a hand around and brushed her fingers over the hole in her jacket, pressing against the material and, consequently, the underlying wound. She grimaced at the deep ache that blossomed and she quickly withdrew her hand. The movement did not go unnoticed by Buddy.

"Don't mess with that," he said brusquely.

Asher looked at him. "Just testing it," she responded, indifferent. She knew the real reason was to break her brooding thoughts. "It was a light touch."

He grunted. Asher figured he did not fully believe her.

She shook her head and glanced out the window again. "I've suffered a lot worse before. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll leave it be. For now."

He nodded, but did not say anything.

Asher furrowed her brow, suddenly curious. He had been shifting into a talkative mood, using more words and fewer feral noises. Now, over the course of a few hours of travel, he had returned to his normal mannerisms. She wondered if the reason was linked to her dismissal of his decision to go to the Plains of Silence. But how could he be angry at her? Could he not see the flaws in his plans? Did he not know how close she had come to killing him, only for him to do the deed for her?

Of course not. He could never know that. And he could never discover the bag of poison under her seat. She did not plan to use it on him, but he would never understand that, especially when she had yet to mention its presence. Her injury would hardly serve as an excuse.

"How much gasoline do you need?" she asked. A perfect prompt for Buddy to actually open his mouth, and an escape route for her to detach from her guilt.

"A full tank. That's the minimum."

Asher nodded and licked her chapped lips. She could get him a full tank, and perhaps some extra if Abrahamus remembered her and still favored her. She did not know what had happened to him over the past few months—or had it been longer?—or if he had kept his beliefs of redemption. Depending upon the changes that had occurred during her absence, he may turn her away; or, worse, he may be appalled by Buddy and refuse to exchange his goods, believing Buddy would use the resources for ill intentions.

No. Abrahamus was firmly rooted in his ideals, and Asher could not imagine him altering his views. And if he had found some glimmer of hope in her, he would certainly see the goodness that was hidden in Buddy. Nothing would go wrong. The Wasteland could not topple Abrahamus and his feigned utopia. Despite his odd ways, he was as resilient as the rest of the Ruined World. He was strong, and he would not fall easily.

"You'll get it," she said aloud, grasping at her positive, persuasive thoughts. "I mean, I won't promise nothin', because that just sets me up for failure. But I'll do what I can."

 _So he can die. Ash, you're wasting your time. Just be rid of him._

Asher refused to listen, but she knew that her inner voice would not stop until she followed its wishes. It would try to sway her in every possible way until she finally surrendered. The taunting was never-ending.

"Just put the stuff to good use, okay?" she told Buddy, a warning laced into her tone. She doubted he heard the inflection—his answering grunt did not hint at any suspicion—and she did not expect him to notice it. She was speaking directly to her inner voice, and its ire burned deep in her chest.

She smiled to herself. Let it be angry; it could not influence her then.

* * *

They argued less, Asher noticed as one day rolled into the next. However, Asher wondered whether the reason was that they had spoken rarely since they left the fallen building or that they had made amends to their unstable partnership. Perhaps it was both, or maybe it was the latter combined with the information each had received. She herself had been warring with her inner voice about Buddy's decision to cross the Plains of Silence. Buddy could be mulling over Abrahamus and his strange clan, questioning how he could possibly attain the fuel he wanted from such a befuddling mess. Or he could be wondering about her. Asher strongly believed Buddy was more worried about his fuel; however, she had an uneasy feeling in her gut that he was wary of her, too. She could hardly blame him if he did.

The scars on her back, her urgency to be on the road again, the information she allowed to slip past her defenses—she was giving herself a blurry image with an undefinable outline. To him, she could be a dangerous liability. Perhaps she was, but she would rather not give Buddy that impression.

She never wanted Buddy to see her scars. Those markings were a part of her past that she would rather keep tucked in the back of her mind, blocked from her thoughts and strictly barred from her dreams. In that respect, she was quite different from Buddy, who was hopelessly plagued by his former mistakes; but as of late, holes have been forming in her great wall, each one sparked by Buddy, once indirectly and the other directly. If these reminders continued, she would soon find herself like Buddy, drowning in nightmares that sought to destroy her.

Her desire to leave was instinctive, since settling down seemed to be a pleasure that left her vulnerable. But that was not the only reason. Her and Buddy were cooperating much too peacefully—pushing her to the point of willingly trusting him as she slept off her pain and failure. Granted, a large part of her had doubted he would kill her after he had went through the trouble of cauterizing her wound, especially with the care and proficiency he had performed the procedure (his warning words of the forthcoming agony, the squeeze of her shoulder, and the quickness he had carried out the steps did not go unnoticed). Even more convincing, he had stupidly entered that building to come find her rather drive away like a sensible man. If he truly wanted to get rid of her, neither of those events would have occurred. She would probably be close to death right now, if he had not done what he had.

They were learning to coincide, then, and probably for their benefit. But to Asher, they were ignoring too many precautions. She kept recalling Buddy's words and remembering the calm, understanding tone he had adopted, as if he knew her better than anyone else in the Wasteland. She could not have that—never. Personal connections meant risk, and risk often led to unbearable suffering and loss.

When the journey began, Asher was fully confident that Buddy would never reach any likeable level on her charts; however, as the days rolled by and Asher learned pieces about Buddy, she was questioning whether he had already breached those boundaries. She could not make herself hate him, especially after the trouble he had gone through to help her when he had no true obligations to. (Asher would not rely on their deal, for she has learned that such agreements tend to crumble under too much pressure.) But he could be no more than a temporary partner. Keep their deal professional, each of them desiring only what would advance them further in the Wasteland. No more.

Of course, she had made the professionalism even more difficult after hinting about herself and tattling about Abrahamus. Why should she tell him that she constantly alternated her name? He did not need to know that. Why did she debate where she would go after they got his gasoline? He would not care what happened to her. Why share her experiences with Abrahamus? He was using her to get to the fuel; therefore, she would be the one making the big decisions and convincing Abrahamus that Buddy was a worthwhile investment. Why had she carelessly tossed out that information when it made no difference?

Because she knew more about Buddy than he realized.

His poison-induced slumber had him talking without his consent. She heard names, each one laced with misery; and, amongst those many souls, she distinctly remembered Buddy's mentioning of a Jessie—Jessie, who had gone under the wheels in some horrid death. She knew, and she figured Buddy would be irked if she revealed her awareness of the tragedy (even with the lack of details). Whether his anger would be directed at himself or her, she was unsure, and she had no desire to find out. Just as she hated to have her old wounds poked, Buddy would probably not appreciate her delving into his past. Therefore, she erased the unfairness and gave him a piece of her. They were equal now—although, she was the only one aware of the former upset and correcting balance.

 _How thoughtful of you_ , her inner voice snapped. _You kill for him, you care for him, and you dance around his feelings. Don't you remember where he's going? The Plains of Silence. He's going to_ die _, but you're too soft to accept that! You need to fix this._

"You all right?"

Asher blinked, inhaling sharply and swiveling her head toward Buddy. He was giving her his usual sidelong glance, but his eyes were darting from her face to her lap. Brow furrowing, she looked down. Resting on her thighs, glinting wickedly in the sunlight, was her dagger, her knuckles turning white under her strained grip on the hilt.

She cursed aloud and shook her head fervently, annoyed by the way her hair fell around her face.

"I'm fine. Just fine. Just…" She trailed off. What was she about to do? How long ago had she drawn the blade? Had she been this tense the entire time? Did Buddy feel threatened? Had her inner voice lulled her into a trance, possessing her muscles so she would finally _just_ kill Buddy?

 _Am I to blame? I thought you said I wasn't real._

Asher closed her eyes for a long time. Then, dejectedly, she said, "I guess I'm just itchin' for a fight." She shoved the dagger back into its sheath; and, when she did, she thought she caught Buddy shifting—relaxing. "Just forget about it."

Buddy was not going to dismiss the problem, though. Her request only fueled him to probe further. "I don't think fightin' was on your mind," he stated—no falsities.

Asher balled her hands into fists. "You don't know."

From the corner of her eye, Asher saw Buddy shrug casually. "You would've sparked somethin' if you wanted to fight. That's what usually happens when you're bored." He faced her briefly, but she refused to return the courtesy, staring stubbornly out the windshield. "Somethin's bothering you."

Asher decided she liked Buddy better when all he did was grunt and mumble. Now, after she had given him a few explanations, he believed he could talk straightforwardly. He was comfortable in her presence, despite her moment of lost control just minutes ago. Other than Buddy, she could only recall two people who acted similarly. One was Abrahamus; the other was a face she had scrapped from her mind a long time ago and refused to fetch it again.

She did not want him to be the third.

"Even if there was, it's none of your business. I think I've shared enough with you for a while," she retorted, her tone mild despite the flurry of thoughts and emotions that rampaged in her mind. Thankfully, her voice was quiet at the moment; however, she could imagine it sitting back and watching the turmoil tear her apart. This was its handiwork, and it wanted to see what the outcome may be.

She was drawing weapons without her consciousness permission. She had let the voice drag her into darker intentions—let it lead her down the same path she had taken when she had nearly slit Buddy's throat. How close had she been to driving her dagger into Buddy? Considering the absence of his shotgun at the side of her head, she had not attempted to harm him. She had not done any damage—not yet.

Buddy had kept silent since her last response, and she knew that he was waiting patiently for her to give him a proper explanation. She refused to give him what he wanted. If he wanted answers, he would have to forcefully pry; and, even then, she would not speak. Buddy would view her quite differently if he learned about the thoughts that had raced through her head. His shotgun would not be sitting sweetly on his lap, pointing away from her. Truly, he would be better off _not_ knowing.

The subject slipped into oblivion. Neither of them addressed the event. Buddy appeared indifferent while Asher monitored her every thought and motion, as if she feared that one of her actions would not be her own. She kept her legs awkwardly bent to ensure that she would have a difficult time reaching for either her dagger or her machete. She did not worry about the guns, for she knew Buddy would question her before she reached for those potent weapons, especially after her odd attitude and random dagger-drawing.

 _You're weak, Ash. He's made you weak. Don't you see that? You need to move on—perhaps sooner than later._

Deliberately, she removed her dagger and machete and harshly tossed them to the back seat. In her peripheral vision, she saw Buddy staring at her, but she did not acknowledge him—only prayed that he would not ask any more questions.

He did not.

Inwardly, she thanked him.

* * *

Night crept on them again, and Buddy stopped the car. Asher glanced around, processing the scenery with newfound alertness. Strange, ghostly white rock formations broke through the sand, beautiful but ugly in a desolate way. Beyond, the unbeaten road sloped down to the mouth of a tunnel—a gaping hole of utter blackness.

Asher took a breath before she looked to Buddy. "We stoppin'?"

He nodded, studying the tunnel ahead of them with squinted eyes.

She followed his suspicious gaze. "You want to go in there?" she asked. She shifted her right leg, her heart dropping at the lack of her dagger in its sheath. She felt exposed without her trustworthy weapon.

This time, he shook his head. "No. It's too dark, and we don't know what's in there." He pointed to the left of the tunnel. Forty yards away from the opening was a cluster of the odd rocks, creating a makeshift hideaway. "We'll stay there."

"Couldn't agree more."

Buddy wove his car through the maze of rocks until he reached his desired location. He shut off the engine, then, and reclined into his seat's cushion.

"I'll keep watch," Asher said. She had slept enough, and Buddy had been driving for a long while. This was his opportunity to recuperate. He knew that, too, for he did not argue with her. He just folded his arms across his chest, scanned the area once more, and sealed his eyelids.

Asher hated that he did not worry about her killing him—purposely or accidentally. He was offering his trust to her. Perhaps she should be humbled, but she could only consider how vulnerable he made himself. She did not want to hurt him, but her uncontrolled actions earlier made her wonder whether she had any restraint. He was dropping his guard, and she feared some dark part of her would seize the opportunity to be rid of him.

She shifted and reached her hand around to fiddle with her wound. She applied gentle pressure. The ache was still present, and it was not much better than yesterday. She expected as much; she just did not want to accept her physical weakness. Too bad. She submitted herself to the danger, and now she had been punished for her carelessness. She could change nothing. She could only wait for her wound to heal.

The night drifted by slowly, and Asher found herself staring fixedly forward, listening to Buddy's heavy breathing. He did not speak any words, but Asher saw him shifting often. He was lost in his world of demons. Suffering.

Perhaps that was why he wanted to go to the Plains of Silence. Perhaps the name meant eternal peace, and he believed he would be guarded from his ghosts. But she knew better. Silence did not embody peace—it embodied death.

Or maybe he knows and that is what he wants.

 _Then give it to him._

No, she would not. She was not required to kill him, nor did she want to. If he wished to die alone in the middle of nowhere, she would let him. Less personal that way. The Wasteland would do the terrible deed for her.

Unless, of course, there was a destination across the Plains of Silence. He could find a place of solace and hope. He could be happy somewhere, wherever that place may be. And she would remain here in the Ruined World, dragging her feet through the sand and keeping her dagger grasped tightly in her hand. She would be miserable, traveling from place to place and wondering when she would finally stop and rest.

 _Are you planning on joining him on his suicide mission, then? How fitting for you and your foolishness._

She shook her head, dismissing the mocking suggestion. She was not going to the Plains of Silence, no matter what promises may lie amongst the endless salt. She was built to survive, and her instincts would not allow her to turn in that direction. Besides, she had already been disappointed with her journey to the east, finding nothing but new, unwelcome faces. She would just return to Abrahamus and look for a new path. Perhaps she would go further west or direct her feet strictly to the north. She would be going somewhere rather than nowhere. Or was it opposite?

Sighing, Asher spared a brief glance at Buddy. He was still sleeping rather soundly.

She remembered someone—though she did not recall exactly who—telling her that good people usually die first. Whether Buddy was wholly good or not was beyond her; however, from what she had witnessed, he was better than most, so he could probably pass as a decent man. He had lived this long, and certainly not painlessly if his list of nightmare-names spoke of his losses.

Maybe that was why good people died so soon: The Wasteland was too harsh, and it broke their spirits and morals. Buddy's problem was that he was tired of his anguish, but his instincts—just like hers—refused to let him die easily. He had to keep driving and surviving; therefore, he had to find an expanse large enough and desolate enough to ensure his fatal faith. He had to go to the Plains of Silence.

Asher nearly laughed. The entire notion sounded cruel, yet she was the one debating whether to kill him and, ultimately, betray him. Twice she had been on the verge of slicing his throat open (she would not count their initial meeting or petty squabbles); and either time, if she would have proceeded, then she would have been all right. Stricken for a few moments, perhaps, but she would have pushed him out, taken the muscle car, and blot the memory. That was worse than cruel—that was heartless.

"Sorry you get the really screwed up partner," she whispered, resting her cheek on her knuckles.

She must have sat for half-an-hour before a strange occurrence garnered her attention.

A pickup truck came barreling down the road she and Buddy had taken. Only when the vehicle drew close to the tunnel's entrance did it begin to slow and eventually stop.

Asher leaned forward in her seat, hand creeping down her leg to clasp her dagger—except, there was no dagger present in her sheath, and she was left grasping angrily at empty space. She resisted the urge to recover her weapon from the backseat and watched, with sharp intensity, the new arrival.

The passenger door opened and produced a single figure, the details of the person obscured by the cover of night. He tramped to back and hopped into the bed of the truck, his movements frantic but forceful. By the swing of his arm, Asher guessed he struck something; then, with struggling exertion, he tossed the truck's load out into the sand—a humanoid-shaped load, Asher noted grimly. He followed, exiting the same way he had entered, and dragged the second figure by the arms toward the tunnel. Meanwhile, the truck spun its wheels to the right and disappeared into the maze of rock formations.

 _How curious_ , her inner voice hummed. _Aren't you curious? You always are, foolish Ash._

She ignored the taunt and grabbed Buddy's shoulder, shaking him. He jolted awake, hand landing on his shotgun but not sure where to aim, his eyes darting around.

"We're fine," she assured, voice low. "But I don't know for how long. We've got company in that tunnel."

Buddy blinked a few times, staring ahead and through the surrounding rocks. There was no movement initially, but after a couple of minutes had passed, a new figure had appeared, coming from the direction the truck had disappeared. The stranger waltzed confidently toward the mouth of the cave; however, before he immersed himself in the shadows, he glanced around, head swiveling as he scrutinized the area.

Then his head pointed toward them and stopped. Asher stared at the undefined face, her grip on Buddy—who, she now realized, she had failed to release—tightening in dreaded anticipation. From the corner of her eye, she could see Buddy's hand leaving his shotgun and reaching for the ignition.

The stranger dashed into the cave, a shout bouncing off the rocks.

Asher cursed. Buddy revved the engine, twisted the wheel, and pressed down hard on the gas pedal. The tires ripped through the sand as Buddy turned them around and led them away from their resting spot. Asher finally pulled her hand away, opting to grip her seat to keep her stabilized as they traversed over the uneven terrain.

They should be safe. Not only were they driving away from the threat, there had only been two figures, and both of them had disappeared into the cave rather than race back to their stashed truck. They were not being chased; no engine other than their own could be heard.

But the front tires hit something and they spun. Both Asher and Buddy cursed, the former going rigid and the latter tapping on the brakes. Their momentum, unfortunately, was too great, and Buddy could not stop the car from crashing into a large, chalky-white outcropping—directly smashing Asher's door. Asher's head snapped, and her skull met the window with a painful thud, making her vision blur and darken around the edges. Her wound hurt incredibly, too, creating a deep, resonating ache throughout her bones and muscles.

Her sight disappeared for an unknown span of time. It was long enough, though, for her to see two sets of headlights racing in her and Buddy's direction.

Where _was_ Buddy?

Her head lolled in his direction, and she saw him reaching into the back; a second later, he was withdrawing, holding two pistols. He met her gaze, brow furrowed and nose bloody. Broken nose, perhaps? Did he hit the steering wheel?

Suddenly, he gripped her chin and leaned in close, grey eyes intent but flashing with panic. "You with me?" he asked, his voice quiet to her ears.

She blinked, still dazed, but nodded. He shoved one of the pistols into her hands.

"Don't let anyone pull you out of this car."

"I'm _coming_ with you," she stated. She refused to stay immobile in the car, waiting for Buddy to do something about the oncoming threat and hoping no one dragged her away. Her head was pounding and her injury was throbbing, but she was not defeated. She remembered the body one of the figures had bashed and dragged into the tunnels; she did not want to be these strangers' next captive for whatever twisted purposes they had in mind. She had been free this long. She would rather die than be chained again.

Buddy was unmoved, though. He did not understand. "Don't know what they want. They'll kill you like this."

"They aren't killing, Buddy. They're _taking_."

His jaw became taut, and his eyes became stone. It would seem she was not the only one determined not to be taken prisoner. He did not necessarily consent to her wishes, though. "Stay," he reaffirmed. Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

Asher cursed and crawled into the driver's seat, peaking out the window. The headlights were glaringly bright, two trucks now stopped within a few yards of the car. Occupants were bounding out of their vehicles, shouting and whooping.

One in particular sneered. "Look boys! He's got a gun. Fancy what's he gonna do 'gainst all of us?"

Asher saw more than the two figures from earlier. Now she saw seven. This was a small tribe, hiding out in the tunnels; and they were nifty scavengers, judging by the weapons they had in their hands. Guns and shivs and a single crossbow held by the man in center of the group. Asher did not appreciate her and Buddy's chances.

Buddy stood to her left, back straight and shoulders drawn back. His shotgun was on display in his hands while the pistol was hidden. "What do you want?" he asked. His tone was low and hoarse—unwelcoming.

There was a snicker, and Asher pinpointed the source from the man with the crossbow. He was the same one who had made the mocking comment. "Everything, of course! Your car and everything that's in it." Asher could have sworn he was looking through the glass and at her. She glared right back. Finally, the man motioned toward Buddy with his crossbow. "And you too, my dear fellow. No hard feelings."

Buddy lifted the shotgun and aimed the double barrels at the supposed leader. "Not gonna happen," he returned coolly.

"Yeah? Well I don't think you have a choice."

There was a gunshot, and Asher watched the figure on the leader's right fall to the ground, clutching his leg and crying. Asher shook her head. Buddy had threatened to do that to her before.

The leader looked at his fallen companion, then lifted his head and stared at Buddy again. He chuckled dryly. "Shame. I wanted to make this easy." Suddenly, he raised his crossbow, prepared to return the favor.

Asher already found herself in motion. She popped open the door, stepped halfway out of the car, and fired two shots at the leader. The first bullet missed by an inch, but the second one grazed his upper arm. He recoiled with an angered shout, cupping a hand over his wound and glaring icily at Asher. She met his gaze, teeth clenched and pistol still held aloft. She dared him to fire a bolt at either her or Buddy, knowing well that if he even twitched, she would be sure she made a hole between his eyes.

Beside her, Buddy shifted closer, shoulder brushing hers and shotgun pointing from person to person. Their combined threatening aura must have been affective, for none of the tribe's members moved toward them. The leader, however, was more infuriated than afraid.

"There's only two of them! Get them already!" he barked, teeth bared like a wild dog.

Asher increased the pressure on the trigger. She felt incomplete without her dagger in her other hand.

None of the members moved, though, merely exchanging glances and fiddling with their weapons. They knew they should not step forward. Either she or Buddy would stop them before they even got close.

The leader released a snarl and whipped his crossbow up again. Asher's finger closed around the trigger, but a second too late. A bolt had already been fired, and it was aimed perfectly at her forehead. She should be dead, yet she was not. Rather, an arm had wrapped around her middle and yanked her body to the left. Asher did not have to look—she knew Buddy had seen the danger before it had been set into motion. He saved her. She owed him again.

The failed attack spurred the others out of their indecisiveness, and they charged forward, catching the moment of vulnerability. Asher's heart leapt in her chest, and she hastily aimed her pistol at the nearest man on the right. A bullet tore through his shoulder, and he tumbled to the ground screaming. She pinpointed another target and pulled the trigger.

 _Click_.

Not good. She needed a replacement—fast.

She dove back into the car, reaching into the backseat and grasping the hilt of the machete. She barely curled her fingers around the blade when hands pulled at her jacket, dragging her back into the fight. She turned and slashed, steel meeting something hard rather than soft. She recognized the familiar shape of a crossbow, and she looked up into the twisted features of the leader. He held the face of a tormented man, with a heavy brow, a crooked nose, and two scars creating an _X_ on his cheek. His eyes were similar to Buddy's with their grey color; however, rather than sanity, his were filled with deranged fury.

He shoved her backwards and pinned her against the car, lips curled. "You picked a bad fight, girly."

Asher did not bother to give a witty remark. She raised her foot and slammed it into the leader's foot. He howled, and she struck his sternum with the pommel of the machete, knocking him backwards. She could not have a moment of victory, though. Another foe stole the leader's place and pounced at her, shiv in hand. She reacted instinctively, seizing both of his wrists and grappling with him. Their struggle forced them to the ground, and they wallowed in the sand, each one desiring dominance. Unfortunately, her machete fell from her grasp, and she could not reach for it, or else she would find a shiv buried in her throat.

 _Get the shiv from him, Ash._

Best piece of advice Asher had ever gotten from her inner voice.

She wrapped both of her hands around her attacker's shiv-wielding palm, gritting her teeth when her attacker decided to use his free hand to wrest her hair, pulling mercilessly at the strands and creating an awful burn all across her scalp. She returned the abuse, digging her fingers between the thin bones of his hand. Pain twisted his features, and his grip loosened enough that she was able to tear the blade away from him. Promptly, she punched him across the cheek, dazing him and flipping him over onto his back. She straddled his waist and raised the shiv, prepared the drive the blade into his chest—repeatedly.

Then something cold touched her head, and a steely tone entered her ears. "You kill my man, and I kill your friend."

Asher's taut muscles froze. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with heaving breaths, and her eyes darted everywhere. Her desperate search finally ended on Buddy kneeling on the ground, one arm twisted unnaturally behind his back and his own shotgun to the nape of his neck. She caught his grey gaze amongst the strands of hair that hung around his face. Gloomy and dark—defeated and enraged. He was waiting for her next move, but she needed a definitive option before she could proceed. He did not give her one.

She looked down at the man under her. He stared evenly back at her. "You kill him, then I slaughter you and everyone one else here," she warned. She still refused to release the tension in her arms.

"I would like to see you try." She felt the crossbow push her head down—felt the weight of the leader's words. Very few people were leaving this confrontation alive, and that number did not include her and Buddy—not if she retaliated.

She did promise herself she would die before she was ever captured, but she could not make her hands bring the shiv down. She could not purposely kill herself, and she could not take Buddy down with her. This crazed leader had conquered her, and she hated every second of defeat.

Her arms drooped slightly and her white-knuckled grip relaxed fractionally—and that was enough. The cold touch left the back of her head, replaced by a sharp strike to the side of her skull. She toppled and hit the sand, vision a mix of dark colors and blurred movement. She could vaguely detect Buddy moving, straining, fighting—then he was struck down, just like her.

She had faltered in a moment of weakness. She had let them get captured.

She slipped into oblivion, regret constricting her chest.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **DieselCrane:**_ I am really glad you are enjoying the story thus far, and I apologize for the lengthy waits. Hopefully this longer Chapter will do the trick; although, the cliffhanger probably does not help. It's been a while since I had a good cliffhanger, and I honestly could not resist. I will try not to hold you in suspense for too long! Thank you for the review!

 ** _reddevil47:_** The Plains of Silence is definitely more prominent in the game than in the movie, but there are several theories to the Plains' involvement in _Fury Road_. I wanted to add my own twist to the Plains of Silence, and I also wanted to incorporate some elements of the game's world into the movie universe. Hence, it has been brought into the plotline.

Thank you for reviewing!

 ** _rachel101448:_** Definitely. Though Asher has some regrets about sharing her past and the little details about herself with Max, it does strengthen their friendship - against their wishes, of course. Rather than just tolerating each other, they are actually attempting to work together; and, consequently, they are caring a little bit more about each other. We shall see where this progress takes them...though, their position right now is not good. At all.

Also, yes, Abrahamus and his colony are very...queer. As for whether we shall see them...I cannot say. Again, only time can tell as Asher and Max continue on their chaotic journey. Thank you for the review!

 ** _Splendiferous7:_** No problem! I hope you enjoyed it and the newest installment!


	10. Chapter 10: Survive

**Author's Note:** Happy New Year! Starting off the new year with a fresh chapter for WTGNG. I do apologize for the lateness, but the end of the fall classes and the holiday schedule had kept me busy. But, I am ready to continue on with Asher and Max's adventure. The time is getting close to when we will uncover more of Asher's past - a significant part, actually. Should be interesting to see how Max responds...

I hope everyone is having a great new year, and thank you for the tremendous support you are giving this story! I could not have done this without all of you!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to.**_

* * *

 **Chapter X:**

 **Survive**

 _"_ _I'm a mad dog whose only concern is winning." –Charles Barkley_

* * *

Asher was unsure whether she should wake up or not. A throb pounding against her skull and a deep, burning pain writhing across her lower back urged her to go back to sleep; her foggy memories, however, pushed through her headache and reminded her of the events prior to her unconsciousness—showed her pictures of a man with a crossbow and an _X_ -shaped scar on his cheek and Buddy held at gunpoint. A part of her wondered whether she was still there, straddling one of the men, shiv poised to kill, crossbow aimed at the back of her head, and Buddy forced to his knees; but then she remembered submitting, barely lowering the shiv before everything went dark. No, she was somewhere else, and she had no idea where. She could not possibly resume her slumber with that thought bouncing around in her subconscious.

Therefore, she opened her eyes—wide initially, then squinted as an onslaught of orange light filled her vision. Her headache flared briefly, displeased with the sudden illumination, and she nearly let her eyelids fall shut again—perhaps permanently. Then voices began to funnel into her ears, varied and hushed, a few sneers and jeers thrown into the unintelligible speech. She pried her eyelids open again, cautious this time, peering through her lashes and slowly scanning her surroundings.

Through the blurriness, she saw a bright fire roaring on her right and a handful of figures sitting or standing around it, passing items amongst their members. Two vehicles were parked on either side of them, like sentries guarding the inferno, and a third car could be seen a little further off, left alone with its doors wide open. Though her vision was still hazy, she could have sworn that the car was Buddy's.

Where was Buddy, anyway?

Something nudged her foot, and she instinctively whipped her head toward the source, brushing aside the sharp pain that jabbed her brain. Instantly, she recognized Buddy sitting next to her, staring at her as intently as she was staring at him. He seemed alert, hinting that he had been awake for a while, and his grey orbs periodically switched from her to the group by the fire, dividing his attention between her and the others. Asher felt a twinge of jealousy: Buddy seemed ready for action while she felt as though she had been asleep for a week.

"What's—" Asher began to say, but she quickly silenced herself when Buddy gave her a pointed glare and subtly shook his head. No conversation permitted. They needed to keep quiet and act as though they were still unconscious. Asher did not like the plan, for she would have to remain inert for an unknown amount of time. However, the plan _was_ smart, for it could keep the tribe's attention off of them—perhaps long enough for them to find a way out of their predicament.

Sighing softly, she studied Buddy for a moment. For the first time, she noticed that his hands were behind his back, secured by a rope—a _frayed_ rope. He was working at the binding, sawing it against the edge of a jutting rock and making good progress.

A short, quick tug of her wrists revealed that she, too, was bound. She did not despair, though, for Buddy had found a way to free himself. She only needed to follow his example.

As she searched for a good surface to begin wearing down her rope, she felt another nudge to her foot. Her eyes flew to Buddy again. He looked her up and down and quirked an eyebrow, repeating the action when she did not initially understand.

 _You all right?_

She nodded faintly, assuring him that she was fine—at least, as fine as she could be. Her whole body ached, most of her discomfort blossoming from her stab wound; however, she saw no benefit in complaining. Once they were out of this mess, then her pain could be dealt with. Right now, they had to find a way to elude their captors.

She returned his question, mimicking his actions; and, in turn, he mirrored her response, nodding. Then, sparing a final glance at the tribe, he looked forward, eyelids sliding close—though not completely, Asher noted. He left a tiny crack to observe his surroundings.

She copied him, shutting out the world except for a mere sliver, focusing her hearing on the chatter several feet to her right and grinding the rope binding her on a suitable rock. She heard insulting slang, strong but playful swearing, and celebratory words. Nothing important or helpful whatsoever.

Longing for _something_ worthwhile, she angled her head slightly toward the bonfire and surveyed the group, searching for any oddities. She was immediately drawn to three figures next to one of the sentry vehicles. One was crouching, back to Asher and Buddy; another one was sitting, slouched against the car and legs splayed; and the third one was sprawled on the ground, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes. Asher noted that they all sported an injury. The crouched one seemed rather well, only his upper left arm swathed in makeshift bandages; the sitting one had an awkward arrangement of rags plastered to his left shoulder, the fabric splotched with dark crimson and his face drained of color; and the sprawled one had several layers of cloth wrapped around his left thigh, obvious blood stains drenching the crude bandage. Asher knew, without further inspection, that the third man was tottering on the brink of death. The blood loss seemed too great.

The crouched figure placed a hand on the sitting man's good shoulder before straightening and spinning on his heel to face the inferno. The firelight highlighted the _X_ -shaped scar on his cheek, telling her that she was looking at the leader. He had been talking to his injured, and the disdain that darkened his features spoke of bad tidings. And when his gaze flitted toward her and Buddy, lips thinned and jaw set, she knew that those bad tidings would be brought upon them.

The leader strode toward them, shoulders hunched and fingers furling and unfurling. Asher studied his appearance, noting the armored shoulder pads and the thick leather hugging his torso. His chest was bare except for two crisscrossing straps that were keeping his shoulder pads in place. His blood-and-oil-stained cargoes were rather ill-fitting, but were strapped down with various sheaths: one for each thigh, both holding a total of six arrows; and one on his right calf, encasing a blade.

Asher tensed, eyes glancing to her own calf. The sheath for her dagger was gone. _He_ had her weapon. That was _her_ sheath and _her_ dagger. And he was grasping the hilt, drawing the blade slowly and deliberately—as if he knew Asher was watching him and wanted to instill fear into her heart.

She would not deny the worm of dread that wriggled in her gut, but she would not proclaim that she was _afraid_ of him. He may have beaten her once, but he only succeeded because he had Buddy at gunpoint. Even now, as he tramped toward her, blade in hand and eyes gleaming dangerously, she was not cowering. He was not brave enough to confront her without her hands bound or Buddy at risk. He was coward. She was not afraid of cowards.

She steeled herself when he drew near, and she dared not to flinch when she felt hands latch onto the lapels of her jacket and haul her to her feet. No longer able to continue her act, she opened her eyes and stared into the stormy grey irises that glared at her. She admittedly felt off-balance on her feet, a brief dizziness wrapping around her brain and increasing the thud of her headache, but she refused to show any sign of weakness. She was glad to have the rock behind her to keep her steady.

Then her dagger touched her throat.

"Welcome back, girly," the leader said, a forced jovialness in his tone. The chatter by the fire had subsided, and all eyes—even Buddy's—were focused intently on her and the leader. "Ya took a good hit to head. Can't say I'm sorry for it, but I'm hoping it cleared your mind. You were being very irrational, tryin' to kill my man."

"Maybe I should have killed him," Asher replied, flat and cold, displaying indifference.

The leader gave a humorless grin. "Yeah? Well, the offer's still up if you _really_ want to kill him." There was a jolt from one member around the fire, and Asher supposed it was the one she had nearly ended. "But your friend would still have to pay for it. An eye for an eye type of thing. Don't you think that's fair?"

Asher scrutinized him, eyes narrowed. "Only if I get to kill you next," she hissed.

His lips stretched further, and he gave a low chuckle. "Oh, that's just _rich_ ," he said. He pulled her away from the wall, only to promptly shove her back forcefully. Asher could not hide the grimace and short grunt as a particular rock dug into her wound, as if trying to pry it open. Through her pain-filled haze, she heard the leader continue, growling, "You think you're really tough, don't ya, girly? You think I ain't got nothin' on you. You think you're better than everyone else here. But you want to know the truth? _I_ have the advantage. I have you at _my_ mercy, and I sure ain't feelin' kind."

He shifted to the side and pointed toward the two injured men with his weaponless hand. "See my fellas over there? See the blood? Yeah, that's your doin', and I'm not the least bit happy about it either." He faced her again, the dagger increasing its pressure. Asher found it difficult to breath. "And if even one of them dies, then you and your friend are going to compensate for their suffering. I'm going to _kill_ you—slowly, painfully, until you're screaming for it to end. You won't feel so brave then, will you, girly? Won't feel so untouchable when your friend can't save you from the arrow I'm gonna put between your eyes when I'm done, huh?"

Asher listened to every word, never once dropping her gaze. Perhaps she should be afraid. Perhaps she should be praying for those men to survive in hopes that she and Buddy would be preserved from some terrible fate. But she was not. He was throwing words at her and making empty threats. He was holding them captive rather than killing them immediately. He was a _coward_.

"I've heard it all before," she remarked, tilting her chin up in an attempt to ease the pressure of the blade. "It never means anything. It's all big talk. You're bluffing—"

Knuckles met her cheek, snapping her head to the left and knocking her to the ground. She heard a garbled curse and a sharp inhale from the leader, and she squinted up at him. He cradled his injury, fingers burying into the cloth there. He was suffering from his wounds, too; and he had been stupid enough to let his anger overcome his common sense.

Asher was not faring much better, though, her head a ball of pain and her lower back burning intensely. Perhaps she had made a mistake, too, mocking the leader as she had.

"Oh, how I'm gonna make you _pay_ for that," he rumbled.

Hands clawed at her jacket again, but she was not forced to her feet. Rather, the leader's grip suddenly vanished, followed by a blur of movement and a strangled shout and growl from aforementioned man. She craned her neck, eyes landing on the two figures tussling on the ground, one blocking and the other delivering a flurry of punches. It took Asher a moment to realize that the former was the leader, pinned and struggling, and that his assailant was Buddy, free of his bonds and succumbing to a bout of rage.

She stared at them—longer than she probably should have—and did not look away until she noticed the frantic movements of the other tribe members. They had undoubtedly realized that their leader was being attacked and were scrambling to come to his aid—and, judging by the weapons they were reaching for, they were prepared to kill Buddy.

Asher struggled to her knees, ignoring the searing pain that raced up and down her side. " _Buddy!_ Come on!" she called to him. "We need to _go_!"

She had barely gotten one foot under her when she felt hands tugging on her arm, hauling her the rest of the way up. Asher did not bother to identify her assistant, merely assuming it was Buddy. At least he was not a complete madman. She has known a few people who would have remained hovering over that leader, delivering blow after blow until the man's head caved in.

Asher stumbled, and her mind resurfaced from her haunting memories. She cursed herself for retreating into those dark thoughts, especially when she and Buddy were being chased down by a blood-lusting, vengeful tribe. She was going to get them both killed if she lost herself so easily.

They charged deeper into the tunnels. Buddy kept a white-knuckled grip on her arm, forcing her to run at the same demanding pace he was maintaining. She did not complain—not that she the chance to—but she found it harder to brush aside the pain that wracked her body now, originating from her cauterized wound. She felt as if her back was covered in flames, eating away at her skin and sinking into her muscles and tissues and bones. Her brain screamed at her to stop and rest, but she denied each insistence, reminding herself that one mistake could end her life. She withdrew into instinct, allowing nothing else to penetrate her thoughts.

Just keep surviving.

See another dawn.

Do what is needed.

They rounded a bend, and suddenly they were submerged in darkness—a fathomless inkiness that completely blinded Asher. She noticed that Buddy was slowing, and in between his heavy pants, he was muttering to himself. They were lost and had no way of knowing which way to go. At any moment, they would crash into a wall or trigger a trap the tribe may have cunningly placed. Even worse, Asher could hear the nearing patter of feet, and she knew the aforementioned tribe would catch them soon. Their enemies lived in these tunnels and probably knew the general layout of the system; or, if not, then Asher expected to see some form of light emerge behind them. They were unprepared for this.

Buddy halted, spun her slightly, and grasped her wrists. Asher heard a tearing noise and felt cool metal brush her palms, then her arms fell limply at her sides. Buddy must have snatched a blade during their getaway. Probably the leader's—no, _her_ dagger. They at least had a weapon, but it hardly compared to the guns or crossbows their enemies carried. Unless, by some slim chance, the tribe was foolish enough not to bring some form of light in their haste to catch them. Then ranged weapons would be absolutely pointless.

She was hoping. She needed to end those thoughts, too.

Once more, Buddy gripped her arm and pulled her alongside him, adopting a careful jog through the tunnels. Asher extended her free hand, searching for a solid surface in the darkness. Her fingertips touched nothing but cool air.

"What now?" she gasped, straining to keep her voice low to avoid any echoing.

Buddy did not respond at first; however, after a few suspenseful seconds, he replied, "I found a wall. We follow it."

Relief washed over Asher, and she eagerly mimicked Buddy's quickening gait, desperate to find an escape route.

What were they leaving behind, though? Buddy's muscle car was back by the campsite, as well as all of their supplies and weapons. How would they survive without those items? Simple: They could not. They would have to go back. But how? And when?

Asher shook her head. That was a concern for another time. First, they had to deal with the tribe.

Buddy suddenly tugged her sharply to the right—at least, she believed it was right—and seemingly _backwards_ , toward the camp.

"What're you—"

Asher was silenced by a hand over her mouth—much to her displeasure. Buddy pulled her back to his chest and held still for a long while, keeping silent except for his heavy breathing. Asher heard the trampling feet draw closer and closer, until the thundering noise was right behind them. A faint flicker of light danced on the walls of the tunnel, briefly revealing their surroundings. Buddy seemed to have found a divide in the tunnel: A small section of rock left behind during the tunnel's formation, creating a wall and, consequently, two paths. The alternate path did not last very long, but it was sufficient enough to conceal her and Buddy.

Much to Asher's surprise, the footsteps did not slow and the light began to fade, traveling further into the tunnel's depths and leaving her and Buddy alone in the returning darkness.

Asher sighed heavily and released the tension in her muscles. Buddy, in turn, dropped his hand from her mouth and loosened his grip on her—although, he still kept a hand on her arm, ensuring that she was still present. Neither of them spoke, opting to listen for any other hint of danger.

When the silence continued, Asher whispered, "We need to go back, get our things, and get out. They're going to realize we ditched them sooner or later."

Buddy made a quiet noise—something akin to a grunt—and began trudging back the way they came, pulling her alongside him. They barely covered a few feet before Buddy suddenly stopped, tightening his grip on Asher's arm. She halted too, and dared not to ask why they were waiting. Instead, she focused on her hearing again, and caught the faint patter of feet, slow and cautious and approaching them from the camp. A dim, yellow glow bounced off the tunnel walls, and she and Buddy hurriedly ducked back behind their cover.

The illumination grew brighter, providing sight for Asher and Buddy once again. Buddy carefully peeked around the wall, squinting and searching. He seemed to focus on a particular point, then quickly withdrew. He looked to Asher, and she raised her eyebrows expectantly. With his index finger, he drew an _X_ on his cheek.

It was the leader.

The soft steps ceased, and the light seemed too close to Asher and Buddy's hiding spot. Buddy placed on a hand her shoulder and urged her back, toward their original spot at the other end of the wall. She complied and slowly shuffled away, letting her gaze drift to her left, fearing that she would see the rest of the tribe come barreling back down the tunnel. There was nothing but darkness on that end, though, and Asher continued to inch toward it.

Then the footsteps resumed, and Buddy increased the pressure on her shoulder. Asher quickened her pace, not chancing a glance back the way they came. Buddy's urgency told her she should not tarry.

The wall finally disappeared, and Asher slipped around it, catching a glimpse of the leader as he strode down the alternate path. She and Buddy had dodged him perfectly. No time to celebrate, though—now they had to hope he did not turn around while they were sneaking by.

Buddy was right behind her, hand now resting between her shoulder blades, still encouraging her to go forward. As they crept onward, Asher kept one eye on the place the leader disappeared and the other eye on the route back to camp. They were close, and Asher could taste freedom—could hear the roar of the muscle car's engine and see the tunnel disappearing from sight. She wanted that, and she had to suppress the urge to start sprinting toward the exit. As much as she wanted to leave, she did not want to be caught, either. Right now, survival relied upon patience, caution, and wits. They could not take any risks.

They reached the end of the wall, and Asher paused to glance down the alternate path. She saw the leader, his back to her, gun in one hand and lighter in the other. She saw the bright splotch of crimson on his left arm, and she guessed that his wound was beginning to bleed again. Not enough to hinder him, apparently.

She turned back to Buddy and nodded her head, signaling that they could keep going. Buddy wasted no time, gliding swiftly down the path toward the camp, Asher beside him and gripping his shoulder. Briefly, they were plunged back into darkness; but, despite a few stumbles, they maintained a steady gait. Eventually, the blazing glow of the bonfire greeted them—as well as two figures sitting near the inferno.

Asher and Buddy halted, remaining in the shadows as they studied their last obstacle to freedom. Asher recognized the men to be the injured duo the leader had been speaking to earlier. The one with the leg wound was still lying on the ground, oblivious to his surroundings and impossibly paler than Asher remembered. The other man—the one with the shot shoulder—sat near him, facing Asher and Buddy's direction and holding a pistol tightly in his good hand. He was more alert than before, and Asher figured he was supposed to kill her and Buddy if they were to return. Asher found the tactic poor and cruel, leaving two unfit men to fend for themselves; but she supposed that the tribe had believed she and Buddy would be unable to find their way back. Reasonable, she supposed, but very underestimating.

Asher looked at Buddy and reached for his right hand, beckoning for her dagger. He stared at her, gaze hard and questioning. She simply flicked her fingers, urging him to hand over the blade. After a long moment, he did, his gaze still locked with hers, an unknown warning hidden in his grey orbs. Asher nodded to him gratefully, and held up a hand to tell him to stay. Then, sucking in a breath, she emerged from the shadows.

Instantly, the man with the gun saw her, and he raised his weapon threateningly. He did not pull the trigger though. He was either scared or under orders not to kill.

She edged closer, keeping the blade hidden behind her thigh.

He lifted the gun higher. "Don't," he croaked.

Asher hesitated briefly, watching him intently— _studying_ him. He could fire the gun, and she had a good chance of being shot if she ran headlong at him. But, judging by his shaking hand and his darting glance from her to somewhere over her shoulder, he was anxious. He did not know what she would do, and that frightened him. That was her advantage.

Asher licked her lips and took a painfully slow step toward the man. "It's pointless, you know," she said, jerking her head toward his companion. "He's losing blood fast. Something major was probably damaged. Ain't no recovering from that without proper care."

His gaze briefly flickered from her to his companion, and Asher moved closer, gaining two more steps. When he looked back at her, his eyes were narrowed and his lips were pursed. "That's your fault. Your buddy shot 'im. Boss said if 'e dies, then your friend goes down with 'im."

Again, he was looking behind her, this time longer. Asher closed the distance even more before remarking, "Yeah, and I shot you. Does that mean when you die then I'm gonna go down with you, too?"

He snapped his attention to her, a strange glint in his eye. He adjusted his grip on the gun. "I ain't gonna die. I'm gonna be there when 'e cuts you up, and I'm gonna _enjoy_ it." He waved the gun toward the tunnels. "And 'im too, wherever 'e's hiding. I'm sure the Boss will let you see that before he finishes you."

Asher nearly charged forward, but she decided the opening was not sufficient. She needed a better opportunity. "Yeah? You think I'm scared of him?" Asher challenged, a breathy laugh passing her lips. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger, her entire body stiffening with anticipation. "I'm not. He's just a coward."

He huffed dryly. "You wouldn't be sayin' that if you saw the last person who crossed 'im."

Asher recalled the body that had been hauled out of that pickup truck. She had not seen any other captives besides her and Buddy, and part of wondered what the tribe _had_ done with their first victim.

But as quickly as the thought had emerged, she banished it, focusing on her predicament. She refused to be frightened by some petty allusion. "Doesn't mean nothing to me," she returned flatly. "All he does is talk big—just like you, actually. I'm not scared of _either_ of you."

Her next step was a long stride, and that struck the right nerve. He pointed the gun a bit to the right—an ironic bullet to the shoulder, she guessed he was aiming for. Revenge-driven or not, his decision was very poor, for his target gave her a generous opportunity to dodge.

She was moving at the same time he pulled the trigger; and as the bullet zipped by, she was surging forward, dagger drawn and winking in the firelight. Her free hand seized his gun and wrenched it to the side while she drove the dagger into his throat. It was easy and quick, and she felt his body go limp, a gurgle leaving his lips.

She stood there a moment, a coldness washing over her despite the heat that radiated from the fire. She remembered a time when she had to do this before—not once or twice, but on several occasions. It had become a normalcy, and it had been displeasing for all involved—just for different reasons. A dozen pleading voices, indistinct and jumbled into one, echoed in the distance, while another set, composed of jeers and shouts, roared all around her, wild and excited.

Then it dispersed, and she was back in the tunnels, holding a slumped man with his warm blood dripping onto her hand. She glanced down at her victim, lifeless and strangely at peace. She jerked her dagger free, allowing him to fold forward, crimson droplets leaking from punctured throat and sinking into the thin layer of sand beneath him.

Pursing her lips, she looked to the other man lying on the ground. She had been speaking the truth when she said he would die because she had seen such an injury before. It was a slow death, and rarely did someone survive such a devastating wound. He _was_ suffering, and his companions were doing nothing to help him. Therefore, she went to him next, deciding to take matters into her own hands.

She knelt beside him and pressed her dagger to his throat. She hesitated at first, remembering how she had been prepared to do the same to Buddy not too long ago, then proceeded to draw the blade across his throat, creating a clean, red line.

It was done. She did him a favor. For some reason, though, her actions seemed just as pitiful as killing the other man.

Crunching footsteps came up behind her, and she peered over her shoulder to see Buddy approaching her, features neutral and eyes stony. She sighed and looked away, focusing her gaze on the muscle car.

"We need to go. The others are going to be back soon," she said, tone subdued. "You check your car; I'll gather some stuff."

Without waiting for acknowledgement, she set about searching the camp, scrounging whatever she found to be useful and either shoving the items in her pockets or tucking them in the crook of her arm. She was sure to snatch a couple of pistols—after ensuring they had ammunition—and to recover Buddy's shotgun, which the others had luckily forgotten. Food and water were strewn about, and she carried as much as possible, knowing those items would be essential for their journey ahead.

What shocked her the most was finding the satchel of poison. It had been discarded to the side, ignored and probably deemed useless. (For who would find a vial of clear liquid and a bundle of fragile pieces of metal meaningful? Only someone who knew what it did.) She immediately threw the strap over her shoulder and lugged it and the other supplies back to the muscle car.

After tossing everything into the backseat—she would straighten everything later—she turned to Buddy, who was examining the front tires. He noticed her stare and stood.

"I don't know how far we'll get. Whatever we hit out there damaged the wheels, and we don't have time to fix them."

"You mean we're not going to make it to Abrahamus' settlement?" Asher asked, throat tight and jaw set.

Buddy shrugged. "I don't know. But we can't stay here." He walked past her and to the driver's side door. "Now get in."

Asher strode to the passenger's door. Her hand barely brushed the door handle when a voice echoed from the tunnels. "You're not going to get far, girly."

Her head snapped in the direction of the taunt. The leader stood at the edge of the shadows, dangling a set of keys from his index finger. She cursed silently, releasing the door handle and facing the leader.

He grinned, but the expression was cheerless. "What? Did you think I would leave _everything_ for you? Granted, I'm a bit surprised that you managed to dodge me and my men while in the dark, but I certainly didn't put it past you." His gaze drifted downward, toward the two dead men lying in their respective blood pools. His grin faltered. "Guess I should have stayed behind. But I knew there were some passages and little nooks. All it took was one lucky find and you both were free. So I went to cover those places, only to hear a gunshot shorty after. I knew something bad happened." He lifted his gaze again, a sneer playing on his lips. "My mistake, I guess. But don't worry: It won't happen again."

He raised his gun and began firing. Asher dove to the ground, scrambling across the rock and sand until she reached the next vehicle, using it as her shield. She sat up and leaned against the rear tire, glancing back to check on Buddy. She could not see him through the windshield, but after a couple of seconds, the passenger door popped open and produced the aforementioned man. She saw his shotgun in one hand and a pistol in the other. He met her gaze, waved the pistol, then tossed it to her. It landed a foot away, and she hastily snatched it up, cradling it to her chest.

The leader cackled. "What? You think you can hide from me forever? Think you can still escape? I have you pinned, and my boys will be back soon." More shots rang out, and Asher heard glass shatter above her. "You're out of time and out of options. But, please, amuse me! I would love to see what you try before I kill you."

Asher grimaced, breathing deeply before shuffling toward the front of the car. She clasped her dagger anxiously and adjusted her sweaty grip on the pistol. The rush of her blood echoed in her ears, interrupted rhythmically by her pounding heart. She had to end the leader as soon as possible. Otherwise, the rest of the tribe would arrive, and her and Buddy would never live to see another dawn—and if they did, it would be because of some drawn-out torture.

The leader had promised terrible consequence if his men died, and Asher now wholly believed he would carry out those plans. This was no game—this was life or death.

Once she reached the front tire, she poked her head over the hood—only to quickly duck back down as the leader sent another bullet her way.

"Oh, that was a close one!" he hooted. Sharp pings echoed behind Asher, and she looked back to Buddy. His back was pressed against his car, and he was keeping himself close to the ground as bullets bounced off the hood of his vehicle.

 _He's distracted_.

Asher had not heard the little voice since her and Buddy's capture, but she was immensely glad it had decided to return at such a crucial moment.

She popped back up, catching a glimpse of the leader lingering near the bonfire. She fired a few shots of her own, growling in frustration when her poor aim failed to hit her target. The leader transitioned his attention back to her, and Asher was forced to sink back down, listening to bullets whiz by. More glass shattered, and Asher felt a few pieces sprinkle down on her back.

"Come on! Where's your bravery? You were so eager to kill me earlier!" he taunted. He sounded closer. "Are you afraid now? Afraid what I'm gonna do to you? To your friend?"

Asher leaned forward, toward the front bumper, and surveyed the area that way. She saw the leader advancing toward her position. Pulling back, she grinded her teeth in a mixture of anger and hopelessness. Why could she not finish him? Was she afraid? Was she terrified of what was going to happen if she failed?

Yes. Yes, she was. It was the first time in a long time, and it made her feel _weak_.

Movement from the corner of her eye had her turning back to Buddy—except, he was no longer pressed against his car. Actually, she could not see him whatsoever, and that only served to raise her apprehension.

Metal hit metal, close to her head. She cursed and scurried toward the rear tire, pistol aimed at the hood of the car and dagger raised defensively. The leader appeared not a second later, the barrel of his gun dragging across the hood before snapping up to meet her own pointed firearm.

A split-second passed. Then he fired.

Asher expected a bullet to tear through her, but instead, the sand sprayed up in front of her, making her jolt backwards. She half-tumbled to the ground, rapidly blinked her eyes and trying to scramble away. She blindly aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger, but none of her bullets found their target.

She heard the leader scoff. "Pathetic. I expected more." _Click_. "I wonder how many bullets—"

His words were cut short by a _boom_ and a scream— _his_ scream. Asher swiped at her eyes and squinted at the leader, watching him stagger and grope at his chest. Blood seeped between his fingers and unspoken pain twisted his features. Then he collapsed, sand pluming around him.

Buddy appeared in her peripheral vision, stalking forward with his smoking shotgun in hand. Asher would not realize until later that she owed him yet again. "Not gonna happen," he rumbled darkly, barely audible.

The leader tried to lift his gun, but Buddy, unfazed, merely knocked his shaking hand to the side and pressed a booted foot to his wrist. The leader heaved and coughed and cursed, too weak to do much else. Buddy snatched away the gun and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. From somewhere along the leader's side, he snagged the keys to his car. The two stared at each other for a long moment, as if challenging each other to lash out. After a few tense seconds, Buddy finally walked away, returning to Asher.

He extended a hand to her, and she took it, rising to her feet. "Thanks," she said softly, casting a harsh glance toward the leader. He merely stared back, eyes dimming and blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. He was a dead man clinging desperately to life, refusing to let go.

"Get in the car," Buddy said, tone even and gaze intent. When she did not respond, he added, "It's over."

 _It's never over. Someone always has to die. It's either you or him, Ash. Don't turn your back on him._

"I'll be right there. I want my sheath back, first," she replied, beginning to saunter toward the helpless man. Buddy caught her arm, though, and held her back.

"He's already dead," he stated.

She stopped, then—truly _stopped_ —and mulled over that information. Her old instincts scuttled back into the recesses of her mind, as if embarrassed that they had shown themselves after so long. Her gut wrenched with guilt, and her shoulders sagged under an invisible heavy weight. Even her voice seemed suppressed, disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared.

What had overcome her?

She never received an opportunity to answer that question before the tunnels reverberated with shouts and trampling feet. It was time to leave.

Asher and Buddy fled to the car and clambered into their respective seats. Buddy ignited the engine and set the gearshift into reverse, retreating from the tunnel. Asher caught a distant light growing in the darkness beyond, but it was quickly snuffed as Buddy pulled away. The exit—or the entrance, since it was where she and Buddy had been before all this madness—was not far, and soon she and Buddy were surrounded by endless miles of ruddy sand. Buddy promptly spun the car around and sped away from the tunnels, leaving the horrid place in a wake of dust.

After several minutes of silence, Asher asked: "Do you think they'll try to follow us?"

Buddy sighed, but Asher could not discern whether he was relieved, disappointed, or exasperated. "No." He spared her a quick glance, brow furrowed and lips pursed. "You all right?"

Her mind flashed back to the men she had killed and the memories that had flooded her. She remembered the voice encouraging her to end the leader for all he had done. Oh, how she had been tempted to put a bullet in his brain or to sink her dagger into his heart. Then Buddy had told her it was pointless—had, unintentionally, reminded her that she was not _that person_ anymore. But how long would it take before she finally snapped? And who would pay the ultimate price for her weakness?

She briefly recalled her urge to kill Buddy—how close she had come to doing it—and shook her head.

"No, Buddy. I don't think I'm all right," she murmured, staring out the window and watching the sun rise over the eastern horizon.

They had lived to see another dawn, after all.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **scarlettsoldier:**_ Thank you, and here is the next update!

 _ **minstorai:**_ Thank you very much! As for Asher: No, I have not made a face-claim for her; however, there _was_ a particular look that inspired Asher's appearance. I won't say who it was yet because it is for later in the story. Like, Act 2 later. I shall reveal when the time comes! Anyway, I'm glad you like the story thus far, and I appreciate your reviews!

 _ **Ardensteele:**_ Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed Chapter 10!

 _ **rachel101448:**_ The end of 2015 has been rather hectic for me, too, so no worries! You are on the right track with Asher's inner voice. I can't go into details, but you will find answers soon, just like Max. Speaking of Max, Asher is taking steps to ensure that she does not endanger him. Seems the tentative friendship between them is steadily growing... That being said, thank you for reading and leaving a review! I hope you liked the newest installment!


	11. Chapter 11: Bad Memories

**Author's Note:** The title of this Chapter should give you all a good hint at where we're headed with the plotline; but the answers are still not all there. What can I say? I like to keep a good mystery going to keep readers invested. In due time, though, we will see the whole picture.

On that note, I do apologize for the wait. Papers have been keeping me a bit preoccupied, but Spring Break swooped in and saved the day (honestly, I've never loved it as much as now). You all have provided amazing support since then. Thank you to all of the reviewers from the last Chapter, and thank you and welcome to the new followers and favorites! And, as always, thank you to everyone who has stuck around thus far! Enjoy!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to.**_

* * *

 **Chapter XI:**

 **Bad Memories**

" _Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you pieces." -Richard Kadreye_

* * *

After roughly an hour of driving north, Max stopped the car. He glanced at the rearview mirror and studied the land he had covered, searching for any signs of pursuit. Nothing but mirages reflected in the glass. Releasing a breath, Max reached for the ignition and shut off the engine, letting the silence of the Wasteland fill the car.

Eventually, he swept his gaze over to Spitfire, who stared steadily out the windshield. She seemed ignorant of their motionlessness and his observing, lost in whatever thoughts swirled around inside her skull. Briefly, Max wondered if he ever looked like that when the demons of his past overwhelmed him, but he quickly batted the thought aside and refocused.

"Get out," he said flatly, but not harshly.

Her eyes darted in his direction, and her left eyebrow twitched ever-so-slightly. Then, with quiet compliance, she opened her door and stepped outside.

He followed suit, leaving his shotgun in his seat and digging out a canteen from the back. A quick rattle revealed a decent amount of water within. Pleased, he exited his car and circled around the hood, walking toward Spitfire.

She studied him as he approached, but Max could not discern what emotions were hidden beneath her neutral features. Disdain, fear, curiosity—anything was possible, but Max figured it was nothing good or pleasant.

When he reached her, she asked, "What are we doing?" Inflectionless, just like her demeanor.

He said nothing initially, noting the nick on her neck and the motley bruise forming on her right cheek. Then he made a faint gesture toward her with his free hand. "Let me see your wound."

She shook her head dismally. "If that's what you're worried about…" She trailed off, gaze shifting uneasily around them, as if she expected an unforeseen foe to rise from the sand. Finally, she resigned. "Fine."

She slipped off her jacket and set it on the roof of his car, turning her back to him and leaning against aforementioned vehicle. He proffered the canteen to her, and she gave it a sideways glance before accepting it and taking a drink. Meanwhile, he lifted the back of her shirt—pointedly ignoring the row of scars—and tugged at the scarf binding, studying the cauterized wound. It was a bright red, he noted grimly. He lightly pressed his thumb against the area. It was warm.

Irritation after the leader's rough handling and the desperate escape? Possibly. Infection beginning to show its ugly signs? That was what he feared.

He smoothed the scarf and stepped back, giving her space. With one hand, she straightened her shirt; with the other, she returned the canteen, the cap still flipped open. He accepted it with a nod, reclining against his car as he took a sip. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spitfire adopt his stance, arms folded across her chest and gaze focused intently on her feet.

After a long silent moment—much like the previous hour after leaving the tunnels—Spitfire spoke, asking, "Well? How does it look?"

He shrugged slightly, swishing around the canteen and scanning the eastern horizon. The sun was making good progress across its bright blue plain—unlike he and Spitfire, who seemed to have hardly made a dent in their journey as they encountered obstacle after obstacle. Perhaps the distance they had placed between here and where they had started showed promise; however, in his mind—and to Spitfire as well, he assumed—they had barely done anything but squabble and struggle.

The Wasteland's doing, or their own recklessness? Maybe a little bit of both.

"It's not good," he admitted after a pause. "It's red—agitated. Warm to the touch."

"Infected?" she suggested.

He looked at her. She searched his face, then turned back to the ground. She gave a curt nod, lips thinned and eyebrows scrunched. Finally, she pushed away from his vehicle and snatched up her jacket, carefully pulled the article back over her arms and shoulders.

"So we're in a bad position." She adjusted the lapels and tugged sharply at the front, irritation obvious in her movements. "Me, the car, our supplies, our progress—why are we so far north, anyway?"

"Terrain was bad around the tunnels. Needed to break away, save the car from anymore damage," Max replied coolly, tossing the canteen onto the back seat again. When he glanced back up, Spitfire had tramped to the back of the car, shoulders hunched and head swiveling in all directions, surveying. Max could not quite pinpoint the issue, but Spitfire's mood had changed into something unpleasant—something bothersome. Her movements were anxious, and her attitude was defensive and reserved.

Obviously, their situation in the tunnels had been debilitating; however, Spitfire's troubles seemed to extend farther and deeper—a specific trigger that had unearthed unwanted emotions or memories.

Max debated the transpired events, examining the possibilities and reasons.

Was their capture the cause? Spitfire had been alarmed when confronting the tribe, but Max had not seen a flicker of fear. She had not cowered in the car, hoping for the conflict to pass and the tribe to drive away. No, she had snapped at them, leaping out of the car at a dire moment and sending a bullet toward the leader before he could fire at Max. She had fought against them until she felt as though she had no choice—whether to save him or preserve both of them, he still could not judge—and she had remained steadfast throughout their stay in the tunnels. Unless she had masked her fears during their struggle with the tribe, Max doubted their mere capture had rattled her.

What about the leader, then? A fiery rivalry had ignited between Spitfire and the leader as soon as she had fired at him. Unimaginable hate simply seized them both at first sight and modeled them into natural enemies. The leader taunted Spitfire and she spat in his face. He had every intention of killing her, and she—she, too, had every intention of killing him. Even when Max had finally ended the leader's tirade and saved Spitfire from a fatal bullet, she had been determined to finish him with her own hands. Revenge fueled by resentment. Max could understand that need to an extent; however, he refused to let Spitfire fall to that desperate, unamendable level. The leader was not worth her time, effort, or hate. Besides, if they had lingered any longer, the rest of the tribe would have caught up with them, and Max was sure the resulting battle would have ended poorly. No need for unnecessary risk.

But was her thirst for revenge sparked wholly by hatred? Max wanted to believe this reason; unfortunately, a previous event tainted his optimism: Spitfire's odd behavior when she had killed the two men who were—foolishly—left behind to guard the camp.

Of course, if Max had been in Spitfire's position, he would have done the same and finished them both. They had been the last barrier to freedom. Spitfire had reached that conclusion too, he was quite positive. Otherwise, she would not have taken her dagger from him and resolved the issue the way she had. In fact, even the words she had fed to the man had not been a means for compromise; she had been distracting him to get closer and taunting him to take a shot at her. She had been creating an opening to strike. She had had every intent to kill and dispose of him. And the second man? Max supposed she had ended him in a form of mercy, for truly, he would not live long in his condition. Yet afterwards, she had changed.

Quiet, hollow, distant—a shadow of her former self. She was no longer flippant or casual, rather adopting a grim and resolute silence. She had withdrawn to the safety of her mind and muted her surroundings. Whatever had secretly occurred during that moment had negatively impacted her.

Max despised the change. He wanted the issue resolved. He actually wanted the old Spitfire to return.

"What happened back there?" he asked after another uninterrupted pause. Her shoulders seemed to hitch higher at his query, as if trying to shield herself. "You haven't acted the same since."

"It's nothin'," she quipped, facing away from him.

He did not believe her, and she had to know that, too. He was not a fool. He refused, however, to play the game of childish blame: _Yes, there is; no, there isn't_. That was wasted breath that would likely escalate to irritation and simmering ire—the way they had been before. Therefore, he took a different approach.

"Something about our situation back there?" he asked. Although he had ruled out the possibility, he decided that he should test his first assumption: their capture.

She bristled. "What? Think I'm shaken up by what happened?" she shot back accusingly, looking over her shoulder to glare at him.

Max shook his head and calmly replied, "Never said that."

She gave a light huff, looking away again. "No," she answered less venomously.

Max had figured as much, and he rolled on to the next assumption: "People we dealt with?"

Now she shook her head. "Do you think I don't know what you're trying to do?" she asked, turning around to give him an incredulous, raised-eyebrow stare.

He shrugged. _Do what you want to do._

Spitfire seemed to contemplate how she should answer him—truthfully, or dismissively. He could not object if she decided to sift through his questions and give him a batch of half-hearted, useless responses. She could deny every possibility, or admit to one of them to sate his curiosity. He had no control—she could speak her mind or cut him off. He has done the same to her before.

"They were scavengers," Spitfire said at last, apparently allowing Max to continue his efforts. "They wanted what we had. Simple as that. Nothing I wouldn't have done if I was desperate and saw a car like ours just sitting there, open for the taking." She frowned. "Their leader, though, was somethin' else. More than desperate. And I don't believe for a second he cared about what happened to his people. He was just lookin' for a way to satisfy his blood-lust. Revenge was just an excuse to disguise what he really wanted."

"Talk like you know him."

Her upper lip twitched. "I know his _type_. And I don't like it."

The resentment was still brewing, even though the leader was likely dead by now. However, despite the harsh feelings, Max doubted the leader was the reason for her mood change.

He resorted to his final assumption: "And those men?"

Her face fell. She knew which men he was referring to without having to ask. Max wondered how long she had dwelled on the subject before he had mentioned it. "Bad memories," she murmured, offering no other explanation.

Max stopped asking questions. _Bad memories_ —he was always having those, especially when the ghosts that haunted him decided to unleash their pent-up anger. He was familiar with the spontaneous relapses that occurred at the worst times, triggered by some sound, sight, smell, or even taste or touch. Some were strong enough to drive him absolutely insane while others were mild, sad replays that refused to end. More often than not, he has also lost himself in these horrific reveries. He has retreated from the present, seized by the imaginary scene that played before his eyes, and let his instincts take control of his actions. He has done that twice in Spitfire's presence: once waking from a dream, another when he had pushed through his poison-induced slumber. Luckily, each time, she had defused the situation and he had returned to his senses; however, he wondered if there would be a moment when Spitfire was not prepared or he was unable to clear his head. What would happen then?

Suddenly, Max recalled when Spitfire had mindlessly drawn her dagger, before the incident in the tunnels. It had happened swiftly and unexpectedly. One moment, she was sitting calmly; the next, her hand was darting toward her feet and withdrawing her blade. She had not looked at him or scanned the area—she had locked her gaze forward, staring at nothing but a plain of sand.

Had he not known her for as long as he had—or, more importantly, trusted her as he did—he would have readied his shotgun and demanded answers. For those reasons, however, he had kept his hands on the wheel and merely tried to coax a response from her. Three times he had reached out: _Hey_ , first, trying to be casual; _what's wrong?_ , second, when he saw the tension bunch in her shoulders after his initial attempt, as if she were perturbed; _you all right?_ , came last, borderline alarmed but still maintaining a mask of composure. She had blinked then, befuddled, staring at him as if he were foolish to ask such a question. Then she had seen her dagger resting in her lap. She had blanched, struggled for an explanation, and finally disposed of the blade, hastily and almost fearfully.

He had not pressed her for answers, viewing the incident as a rare slippage of control. Again, he has done the same before, and he understood the feeling. But why then? What had she seen, heard, smelled? What had they passed? What had he done? What had she thought about prior to her relapse? What frightened her enough to draw her dagger? Why had she seemed so afraid when she realized what she had done?

Those specific questions had to be brushed aside (Max knew better than to pry at a bad memory), but the situation established a link to the tunnels. Killing those men—above any other death she had wrought—had triggered a relapse and shut her down, if only briefly. That was the beginning of her sudden reclusive attitude.

What terrible memory, though, had resurfaced?

"Can you fix the car?" Spitfire asked, emerging from her silence and pulling Max out of his thoughts. He met her passive stare with renewed focus.

He sighed heavily—one sour topic to another. "Don't have the parts," he said grimly, flitting his gaze to the front of the car. He despised the feel of the car ever since they had left the tunnels. There was an odd vibration that resonated throughout the vehicle, and the steering wheel twisted slightly whenever he drove over a dip hidden beneath the sand. Indeed, it was concerning, but Max did not have the means to properly repair the damage. He berated himself for not keeping a proper stock.

Surprisingly, Spitfire did not react negatively to his response. Rather, she straightened and directed her gaze northward. She pointed. "See that ridge? Just along the horizon?"

Max faced the north. Unmistakably, he saw the jagged top of a ridge breaching the horizon, creating an unsightly view. He grunted his affirmative.

"Well, towards the latter part of my journey east, I made a serious trek north. I found the ridge and I followed it, hoping it would take me somewhere. Along the way, I met a couple of people—a father and a son, nestled right against the ridge in this little lean-to they built. They were friendly. Warned me about some danger around there and offered to let me stay for a bit." She stirred the sand with the toe of her boot, reminiscent. "Course, I didn't like the idea, and I always slept with one eye open around them. Nothin' happened. Except, I discovered that the dad was a mechanic. Said he used to own a garage back in the old times, before the world fell into ruins."

Max pursed his lips. "You know this for a fact?"

She gave him a brief, ghostly smile—a welcome expression after her grim demeanor. "When I was with them, they negotiated with a man on a broken bike. Supplies for a functioning vehicle. Father and son worked together, and surprise! Bike was fixed. Took barely a couple of hours, and they got water and a couple of parts that the bike no longer needed. It's a nice system they run."

Max blinked, both eyebrows raised in interest. "You think you can find them again?"

"Gotta reach that ridge first, but I'm sure I could." Her frown returned, as well as her broodiness. "It's going to send us off track, though. And I can't say I like the area."

"Danger?" he prompted. The pair had warned Spitfire about danger, he recalled.

Spitfire nodded. "Slavers run rampant around the ridge. Ranges from five to ten members, all on bikes. They like to poke around and take people for whatever purpose they have in mind."

"Sounds like another problem." _Sounds like the tribe_ , he wanted to say, but refrained. He had no intention was focusing her mind back on her troubles.

"I know," she said. "I don't like the idea any better than you do. That's why I was irritated to see how far north we were. But if we want to make it to Abrahamus' place, then I'm guessing we need to fix your car. Right?"

Reluctantly, Max nodded.

"Then that's our best option. We can go to them, or we can take the risk and keep driving west."

Max stared at his car for a long while, debating. A thousand possibilities played through his mind, ranging from grand to terrible. He did not favor the odds in either option—drive through slaver territory or drive until the car broke down. He also questioned whether this father and son pair would even be willing to help, or if they would ask for more than what he and Spitfire were willing to give. Even a small part of him wondered whether the tribe was planning to come barreling after them, even though he had seen no trace of them thus far. If so, the tribe would certainly catch them if they stopped for too long.

Max lifted his gaze to an expectantly waiting Spitfire. "If there's a chance, then we need to take it. First sign of trouble, though, and we get out."

Spitfire nodded approvingly. "Agreed."

Max pushed away from the car. "Then get in."

She sidled toward the passenger door, placing a hand on the door frame and hesitating for a second. Then she looked back at Max. "Why are you like that?"

He gave her blank stare, baffled by the vague question.

She cleared her throat and continued, clarifying, "You've seen the scars on my back and brushed it off like it's no big deal—like you've seen it all before. I know you haven't, and you can't tell me that you 'don't care.' I've learned a few things about you, and I know you're smarter than that. You know there is something strange about me, maybe even concerning. You know better than to _not_ care." She propped her arm on the door frame, placing weight onto it. "Same thing when I pulled that crap with the dagger. You knew I lost control. And that whole deal in the tunnels? You knew that wasn't normal. You knew I wasn't the same afterwards. But each time you let it slide. You never… _confront_ the problem. Why?"

Max shrugged. "Figured you wanted to keep your secrets."

"So what?" she shot back, exasperated. "I never do the same for you. I'm never worried I'm pushing your buttons or poking an old wound. I just ask. I demand. I _confront_. Like right now, actually." She shook her head, puffing out air. "But I guess you let that go, too."

"No," Max responded levelly. "But you haven't done it again since then."

 _Not since Jessie. You haven't mentioned her again because you understand why you shouldn't_ , was the silent addition, resonating between them despite being unspoken. _Someway, somehow, you know you shouldn't._

"Maybe," she admitted, deflating some. Still, she wanted the final word. "But that still doesn't answer my question."

"Which is?"

"Why aren't you tearing me apart? Why aren't you asking the important questions? Why are you _trusting_ me?"

 _Trust_. She was unfamiliar with the mere notion of _trust_ , as she had expressed to him back at the fallen building. She did not know how to handle the feeling—how to nurture it or cope with it. Either Max was the first person she has been able to rely upon, or the last person who had her trust had been absent for years. Maybe she was even betrayed once and refused to allow trust to ever grow beyond necessary cooperation.

Deep down, Max treasured that trust—shared it, too. Unfortunately, past experience made him despise that link. It was rare and profound, but it was vulnerable. The connection made them more than merely people trying to gain something from one another; it made partners—made them _friends_ , even. What happened when failure struck? What happened when a little mistake blossomed into an unforgiveable action? What if tragedy struck?

 _Where were you, Max?_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind, solitary and haunted. Max ignored it, but he knew it would never go away.

"Trust isn't about giving away secrets. Perhaps with time, but not always," he said, simple and plain, as if his words were obvious. "It's watching out for one another, knowing that neither one is going to turn on the other or run away, even when everything goes downhill. That's trust."

She blinked hard and stared at him, disbelief evident. "And I earned that?" she asked, quiet and unsure. "From you? Despite everything?"

He held her gaze for a few seconds, then gave a single, definite nod. "Yes."

Her stance slackened and her features softened. She never did drop her gaze, though, continuing to search his eyes. Finally, she breathed a long sigh and said, "And I trust you."

Max half-expected her to add a sly comment as she tended to do; however, not another word left her lips and her features remained resolute. She was serious. She did not want to be taken lightly.

He made a small sound in the back of his throat and nodded. She mimicked the gesture and ducked into the car, ready to resume their journey. He followed, rounding the front of the car and reclaiming his seat behind the wheel. He ignited the engine and aimed for the ridge along the horizon.

* * *

The sun was a quarter of the way across the sky when they reached the ridge. The rock was jagged and striated, serrated peaks clawing at the blue expanse above. Max came to a gradual halt at its base, staring distrustfully at the landmark. A part of him expected to see bikers come racing down the steep slopes, having hidden in the crags to pounce on unsuspecting travelers.

He kept a reassuring hand on his shotgun.

Spitfire leaned forward in her seat, elbows resting on her knees. Her eyes scanned the ridge with analytical sharpness, as if she imagined the same danger he had fathomed. Then she swiveled her head both left and right, deciding where to go next.

Eventually, she pointed west. "Shouldn't be much further," she said. "Luckily, we haven't passed it."

"You sure?" Max asked as he turned the wheel westward—toward progress. He wanted to avoid backtracking, since that would cost them valuable fuel.

Spitfire, thankfully, did not hesitate. "I've never been more sure in my life."

Roughly twenty minutes passed without significant change. The ridge undulated beside them, casting slanting, monstrous shadows on the sand before them. Max restlessly roved his gaze across the ridge, lingering on any strange shape or deep crevice. Nothing moved or poked its head out—the ridge was as desolate as the Wasteland. If any life loitered near the landmark, it was either hiding or nestling on the opposite side. Max did not care either way, as long as they kept away from him and Spitfire.

Spitfire gripped his shoulder with one hand while the other gestured toward a crescent-shaped slope that suddenly emerged at the base of the ridge. "That's it! Stop here," she urged. Max complied and applied the brakes. They had barely come to a halt before Spitfire was stepping out of the car. Max opened his mouth to object to her hastiness, but she had already shut the door behind her and began strolling toward the slope.

Even after the incident at the fallen building, Spitfire still scoffed at patience. Max figured she would never quite learn the lesson.

He snatched up a pistol and tucked it into the waistband of his pants while he held his shotgun firmly in his hands, prepared to fire at the first sign of trouble. He exited the car and took long strides to reach Spitfire's position at the edge of the curving slope. His eyes still strayed toward the ridge, but after the umpteenth failure to find a single suspicious oddity, he lowered his gaze to ground-level. When he reached Spitfire's side, he stared down at the setting below them.

A crude lean-to had been built at the bottom of the slope: a rock-overhang forming the roof and a variety of scrap metal serving as walls. A pan meant to collect water sat empty off to the side of it. Vehicular parts were strewn carelessly across the ground, and two crates were overturned and splintered. The makeshift home looked abandoned and looted, though not thoroughly. A hasty escape? A sloppy ransack? Whatever the cause, it did not sit well with Max.

Worse, Spitfire decided that a closer inspection of the scene would be the best course of action, crouching and slipping down the slope. Again, Max was too late to protest, forcing him to follow close behind. He scanned the surrounding area one last time before gliding down Spitfire's fresh trench. When he reached the bottom, Spitfire was already edging toward the lean-to, head swiveling back and forth. She held her dagger aloft in her hand, obviously wary of the dysfunctional setup.

Max kept one eye on her as slinked toward one of the crates to inspect it. The stench reached him first, and he knew instantly what he was bound to find when he peered inside.

Shoved into the cramp container was the corpse of a man, rotting but not completely decomposed. His features were sunken and his skin was pallid, save for a smear of dark, dried blood across his chest and stomach. Max noted stab wounds amongst the gore with maggots wriggling within. He stepped back, nose scrunched in disgust.

A couple of minutes passed before Max caught movement in the corner of his eye. Spitfire had come to his side after noticing his strange behavior. She glanced inside the crate, her face ashen as she studied the corpse.

"That's Gideon," she murmured. "The dad."

Suddenly, she snapped her gaze toward the other crate, eyes burning with roiling emotions. She surged toward the crate, but Max snatched her arm, stopping her for the first time since they had arrived.

"Don't," he warned, well aware of the horrors she could find stashed crudely into the container. It would be much worse than seeing Gideon, he was sure.

Spitfire did not listen though, jerking her arm free and trudging toward the crate. She looked, stared for a brief second, then turned back to him.

She shook her head. _Empty_.

Max released a breath he had not realized he had held.

Spitfire came back to him and Gideon, shoulders sagging. She looked at Gideon for a few moments, then turned away. "He was good guy. Didn't deserve this," she said. "Not sure if I should be happy Gabriel's not here. He may have run off when this happened, or someone could have nabbed him."

Max figured what her thoughts were centered on: the slavers. He was thinking the same.

After another minute of respectful silence, Spitfire spoke again, "Do you think you can find the parts you want here?"

He gave a little shrug, eyes scrutinizing the various pieces of scrap lying half-buried in the sand. "Let me look around. I'll see what I can find." He nodded his head toward Gideon. "What about him?"

Spitfire set her jaw, as if determined. "He's been wasting away long enough in this crate. I'm gonna see if I can dig him a decent grave. He deserves that, at least."

Max studied her demeanor for a moment, then said, "I'll help."

She met his gaze, providing that ghostly smile again—except, this time, it was hollow. "Thank you."

* * *

They took sizable pieces of metal from the walls of the lean-to and used them to burrow into the sand. The job was difficult. The sand was too loose to dig a proper six-foot-deep grave, and stones would randomly impede their progress. Sweat dripped off their faces, and once they stopped to rest, breathing deeply and mopping their brows. They finished, though, around noon. The grave was shallow, but it would serve its purpose.

Together, they hefted the crate to the grave, then carefully deposited Gideon's fragile body into the grave. Spitfire went back to the lean-to and pointed out two windowless car doors. They took the doors and laid them over Gideon, then grabbed the stones they had dug up and placed them at the edges to hold the metal down. The piles of sand were shoveled back into the grave until Gideon and his makeshift casket were out of sight. Finally, Spitfire speared a piece of scrap metal into the sand to serve as a headstone.

They stepped back and looked solemnly at their work.

"Thank you," Spitfire repeated. "Would have taken me longer without you."

Max only hummed. There was not much to be said.

Breathing deeply, Spitfire asked, "What do you need for the car?"

He raised an eyebrow. "How much do you know about cars?"

She scrunched her nose. "Not much. But I can haul as much scrap up the slope as you want me to. I think it would be unfair if I rested in the shade while you ran around looking for parts _and_ tried to fix the car."

He shrugged and turned on his heel. "You're welcome to help," he said.

With a resolute nod, she said, "Let's get started."

* * *

Max gathered what he thought were the best parts, took them to the car, and began working. Spitfire made regular trips, returning a few pieces to dump on the ground, then circling around the car, scouting. Since he was stationed underneath the car, he had a limited view of his surroundings; therefore, Spitfire took it upon herself to look out for him. In case trouble arrived, though, he kept the shotgun and the pistol underneath the car, right next to his hands.

He and Spitfire did little talking. Occasionally, she asked if he needed a specific part; and, if so, what did it look like so she could try to find it. Other times, he asked her if she saw anything if she took too long to scan the area. The reply was the same: _No, just being sure._ Otherwise, talking was unnecessary. Spitfire came and left, monitored the area, and thrice offered him a drink of water. Max himself worked ceaselessly at his car, repairing and mending, searching for a durable fix that would keep the car functioning. He would have preferred better, more suitable parts, but he could not be picky, especially since Gideon and Gabriel had gathered decent parts that served his repair job well enough.

Max sometimes paused to think about the father and son. He debated whether their death and disappearance, respectively, had taken a heavy toll on Spitfire. She had not mentioned them, not since they had buried Gideon. He supposed the courtesy had eased her mind, and helping him with the car distracted her from the tragedy. A good strategy, he supposed.

Otherwise, his thoughts about the pair focused on the cause of their demise. The event had transpired more than a week ago, considering Gideon's state, and Max placed the blame primarily on the slavers, since they seemed to run the area around the ridge and instilled fear into the residents. Any other possibility would be scavengers, though he questioned why they would need a child in their midst.

He blinked, and his son's face flashed into his mind. He shook his head stubbornly. Best not to debate, he supposed. Just keep working.

Once, however, during the third time Spitfire had offered him a drink and he had accepted, he had asked her, "Did you ever see the slavers?"

She had pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "No. And I consider myself lucky that I didn't."

Max thought the same.

Eventually, by early afternoon, Max finished the repairs and slid out from under the car. He swiped the sleeve of his jacket across his forehead and studied his surroundings, squinting against the bright glare of the sun. Spitfire crested the slope a few minutes later, carrying nothing.

She gave a humorless smile. "I gave up. Everything else was either broken or rusted, and I figured you had enough to salvage from."

Max nodded. "It's done," he said.

"Is it good for the trip?"

"Best I can do."

"Then it's good."

She sat beside him, legs stretched out and hands clasped in her lap. They said nothing for a long time, merely enjoying the peace and relaxing after working under the relentless sun. They were content, and they were tired. Nothing was worth talking about.

"You need to rest," Spitfire said at last, lolling her head toward him.

He grunted. "Not here. Don't like it here."

"Agreed."

Sucking in a breath, he stood and stretched, limbs and back aching. Spitfire rose too, though more slowly. Max eyed her.

"You all right?"

She nodded. "Sore," she admitted.

Accepting the simple answer, he took a step toward the driver's side; Spitfire, however, stopped him, placing a hand on his chest. He raised his eyebrows, silently asking for an explanation.

She dropped her gaze and cleared her throat. Finally, she said, "Something's been on my mind, since we talked—you know, after we escaped." She retracted her hand and rocked back on her heels. Indecisiveness crossed her features.

Max interjected. "Don't have to talk about it."

She shook her head. "No, I do. I know you said trust isn't all about spilling your secrets, but if you're willing to trust me, despite how _little_ you know me…I don't think it's fair. And who knows: Maybe you have some dark past that I don't know about, and I'm making a mistake trusting you. But to be honest, I can't really imagine that. Maybe something bad happened to you, but I don't think it was your doing. Not like me." She shed her jacket and tossed it onto the hood of the car. Her movements seemed stiff, filled with reluctance. "You need to know something about me. _I_ need you to know. Then maybe you'll get a better picture of who you're trusting."

She turned her back to him. He did not move—did not reach out to her as he expected she wanted him to do. After a few moments of continued hesitance, Spitfire pinched the collar of her shirt.

"Pull it down," she said, impatient and anxious at the same time.

Max waited for a bit longer, wondering if she would realize what she was doing and pull her jacket back on. She did not move an inch, though, rooted to the spot and staring steadfastly forward. With a sigh, he hooked his index finger on the back of her collar and tugged it down gently. His knuckle brushed something raised, and he figured it was the tally continuing up to her neck.

He was wrong.

There, branded into her skin, were five capitalized letters: _KILLS_.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 ** _KatieBees:_** Max and Asher's story will not be forgotten - especially when I leave a cruel cliffhanger. So the end of their story will only be when this story is completed.

As for last Chapter: Definitely. Max and Asher are beginning to cope with each other - and in this Chapter too, as they explicitly expressed. Of course they'll have their moments of disagreements and trials. Such as Asher and her past. You soon shall see where her actions and scars originated from, as well as how Max handles the information. Should be...interesting, to say the least. Anyway, thank you for the review, and I hope you enjoyed Chapter 11!

 ** _Guest (Omg thank you...):_** Thank you very much! I'm glad you like the story thus far, and I hope to keep you hooked as the tale unfolds!

 ** _Splendiferous7:_** _Mad Max_ without a little mayhem would not be _Mad Max_ ; throw Asher into the mix and you double the chaos; combine Max and Asher and you have a recipe for disaster that I am not afraid to exploit. Keeps you on your toes, right? And as Max said: Trust is watching each other's backs. That's how Max and Asher cooperate and survive.

Thank you for reviewing!

 _ **Nina:**_ Thank you! And don't worry: we have not seen the end of Max and Asher's story, and we won't for a while longer...!

 _ **reddevil47:**_ Hey, the dark side has Darth Vader, Darth Maul, Kylo Ren, Stormtroopers, and sometimes Boba Fett - cookies and free throat hugs, too, so I have been told. You can't lose going to the dark side. But...that's a conversation for another time, haha! Thank you for the review!

 ** _minstorai:_** Thanks! Action sequences are my favorite scenes to write, so expect many more! (Plus, this is _Mad Max_ ; action is guaranteed.)

 ** _Riley Anna (Guest):_** Asher's past is something that will haunt her, and those darker times will influence her actions, such as in Chapter 10. And you're right: Even if she killed them out of mercy - or even survival - she still lost herself. That especially showed when she wanted to finish the leader herself, even though he was practically dead already. She has to cope with it, but learn to control it, too. It's just not easy. Thank you for reviewing, and I hope you enjoyed the new Chapter!

 _ **Guest (I have read...):**_ Thank you, and I am really glad to hear that! Max can be a difficult character to write, considering his personality, demeanor, and past. He's complicated, and translating that to paper can be challenging - especially when combined with Asher, who often likes to test and surprise him. Also, I am infamous for withholding information when telling a story because I have a love for suspense. Or I'm evil. Either way, suspect secrets.

Thank you again for the wonderful review!

 ** _rachel101448:_** I wish I could tell you if you are on the right track, but you will find out soon - promise! Her past, however, has made a significant impact on her, as we saw in previous Chapters. And soon, Max will find out why she has been acting strangely lately - though he may not particularly like it. Also, the road to Abrahamus' place has certainly been arduous; but I guess the Wasteland is never kind... Thank you for the review!

 ** _Lycan Lover 411:_** Thanks!

 _ **Crazy Redwood:**_ That is awesome of you to say, and I really appreciate your review! It's good to hear that the story has come along nicely and that the characters are developing well and believably. As for the action: That is my addiction in writing, and _Mad Max_ is my perfect playground for such mayhem. For Max, I figured the Plains of Silence would be his ultimate destination in the end. As the movie said, Max has been "reduced to a single instinct: survive." It cannot be easy for him to simply lie down and die, even if he desires to do so. Driving until he can't turn around...it's a way. This conversation turned dark all of sudden...I'm gonna leave it at that.

Also, you shall soon see - at least a part - of Asher's past. Chapter 12 may be a little dark, too... You have been warned.

 ** _Caliweiser:_** Thank you! The game has some interesting story elements that I believe will flow well with the story. The plot of the game will not be fledged out in this story - that would be unnecessary and awkward, honestly - but it will be acknowledged and mentioned.

 ** _Celery24:_** Thank you!

 _ **Madsole3:**_ Thank you very much, and I hope you enjoyed Chapter 11!

 ** _Nim-Silma:_** Thank you!


	12. Chapter 12: Second Chances

**Author's Note:** *steps out of bunker* So...it has been a while. Time has flown over here, and I have not been able to sit down with this story until recently. I do apologize for the wait, and I appreciate your patience. The good news? You all will finally get an explanation about Asher's tally and past. Of course, Asher is vague on some details - in other words, blame her if you wanted to know more - but I believe this Chapter will provide answers to some major questions. Also, you will see how Max views the situation - for better or worse.

I want to thank everyone who has followed, favored, and reviewed this story - all of you are amazing for the support you give me for the story and each Chapter! You all motivate me to keep this tale going, no matter what obstacles get in the way - and that means a lot to me. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy Chapter 12!

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to.**_

* * *

 **Chapter XII:**

 **Second Chances**

" _I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." -Maya Angelou_

* * *

 _KILLS_.

Max stared at the raised lettering—and stared, and stared. He shifted his hand and saw the top of a row of tally marks about an inch below the branded word. He did not need to see the entirety of Spitfire's back to know that the numerical slivers covered it from top to bottom. It was a grand sum of—of what? The people she had killed? Spitfire had her moments of ruthlessness, but could she truly do something of this scale?

His heart slowly sunk in his chest while his mind slammed shut a heavy door, barring his beliefs from what he was perceiving. He could hardly imagine that the woman who was standing before him—the same woman who had watched his back, saved his life, and argued playfully and hatefully with him about everything—was a heartless killer with a long list of dead men and women scoring her back. She was no saint—no one in the Wasteland could ever truly be one—but she was no monster. Not in his eyes.

However, he could not help but remember her strange behavior before their capture, her distant demeanor when she killed those men in the tunnels, and her venomous hate toward the leader and her need for revenge. Of course, Spitfire was a vicious survivor like anyone else in this world, and Max did not loathe her for necessary actions. What she had shown him, on the other hand, spoke of different circumstances and reasons, and he wondered what had been going through her head during those mentioned moments.

 _Bad memories_ , he recalled grimly.

He must have been staring too long, for Spitfire squirmed away from his touch and snatched up her jacket. She pushed her arms through the sleeves and peered at Max through her lashes. Her shoulders were hunched and stiff, and her bottom lip suffered from her gnawing teeth.

"Shouldn't have done that. Stupid," she mumbled. Jacket donned, she shifted toward the passenger door, obviously wanting to retreat and forget the whole ordeal. Max has wanted that before— _done_ that before. It was almost instinctive to avoid an ugly past. But, in the end, ignoring it never worked.

"Where'd you get those?" he asked quietly—reservedly. He had no idea how far the conversation would go, or if Spitfire had any intention of explaining those marks. Judging by the way her body froze—muscles going taut and limbs going rigid—the topic was sensitive. Max understood that, too: Explaining something painful was like rubbing salt in a wound.

"Not a good place," she replied, tucking her fists into jacket pockets. "I don't think I need to explain what they mean. They are what they are."

Max's mind was still resolute, so he had to ask, "Each one a different person?" Seemed worse to say it aloud—for him and her.

Her eyes dropped to her feet. "Yes." She paused and drew a breath. "I know it's not easy to believe, but yes, every one."

The Wasteland seemed to be listening, for the winds died and the sand stopped shifting around their feet. Just their own shuffling interrupted the lull. The silence was great enough to make Max's ears ring.

"They hurt you?" he probed.

She gave him an utterly baffled look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Did those people hurt you? Did you kill them because they wronged you?" Still sensing incomprehension, Max clarified grudgingly, "Ever heard of the Thunderdome?"

The confusion left, and she nodded placidly. "Yeah, I have. But this place…it isn't the Thunderdome, Buddy. It's a fight to the death, but it's for no reason other than entertainment."

"Thunderdome is, too," he pointed out.

"That's different. The Thunderdome mostly settles scores between people. It just _happens_ to provide entertainment." She shook her head—not indignantly, as Max was accustomed to, but almost patiently. "Where I come from, they don't settle disputes. If you get in the arena once—and live—you don't ever leave. That's where the tally comes in. You keep surviving, your kills get higher, and you become more valuable." A shadow crossed her face, and her brow furrowed deeply. Max wondered if those old memories were playing out behind her hardened eyes. "If you ask me, Thunderdome is a better deal."

 _Not by much_ , Max thought, but he did not openly object. That was a story for another time. Right now, Spitfire was trying to explain her past to him, for whatever comfort it provided her. She was making progress, at least; unlike him, who kept his own bad memories to himself, locked away in the deepest recesses of his mind. He had never dared to share his secrets with her.

She trusted him more than he had originally thought, and he did not know whether to be humbled or horrified.

He batted away the menial concern and kept the conversation moving. "How long?" he asked.

Her lip twitched, and she regained her senses. "What? How long was I there? Most of my life. It was my home, believe it or not. I just made some bad choices that ended up sending me to the arena." She crossed her arms loosely over her chest. "On the other hand, it's been about three years since I left—give or take a few months."

Max nodded, then said as a thought dawned upon him: "Is that why you were traveling east?"

"Partly," she admitted. "I mean, it wasn't my first move. I lingered around the area because I had nowhere else to go. Never been beyond those walls. I was in for a treat." She huffed dryly. "Eventually I got along, wandered around, and met Abrahamus. I didn't start a serious trek east until three or four months ago—roughly that."

"Seems like a short time to be headin' back now," Max said.

Spitfire's features scrunched. "I know. I probably still would be goin' east if I hadn't met you." She gave him a slight smile. "Before that, I was too stubborn to turn around, especially after how far I've come. It's a long walk."

He grunted. "But then I guzzled your water and ruined that plan."

"That you did," she said. "But you also showed me—in a roundabout sort of way—that I was wastin' my time going that way. You had a fast car that could take me back to Abrahamus without much hassle—not to mention improve my survival chances. That's what convinced me to go back. Just had to live with you." She shrugged. "It worked out."

"Good to know," he hummed. Unfortunately, the sullen mood returned as he asked, "But you're going back to that place."

"Not there," she said pointedly. "I would never go back there, even if you promised me the Old World would come back. No, I just want to go back to Abrahamus and…recuperate, I guess you could say. Try to find somewhere else to go."

Max pursed his lips. "What if they're looking for you?"

She shook her head. "I told you: No one's looking for me or coming after me. I don't care what the tally on my back says—after three years, they've lost all hope of getting me back. Lost merchandise is lost merchandise after so long."

Inwardly, Max cringed at that final sentence—that label she had used nonchalantly. He wondered if she had grown accustomed to such names during her time there—indifferent and uncaring, just surviving until she could finally leave it all behind. Or perhaps those words did hurt, but she trained herself not to let it show. He found the latter difficult to believe, considering her passionate outbursts whenever they quarreled, even over little matters. Then again, when it came to names, she seemed to have a slew stored for safekeeping, dispensing one whenever needed. Was _Spitfire_ a nickname she had acquired during her time in the arena? Max decided that that mystery was better left untouched.

Ultimately, he knew he despised this place. He has seen ghastly, hopeless sections of the Wasteland. He was walked among, dealt with, fought against, and sometimes lost to the most horrid people the Wasteland had to offer. Spitfire has, too; and, worse, she has had to live such monsters for most of her life. She left, and Max understood that; she wanted to go back, and Max thought she was possibly insane.

At length, Max shook his head. "I can't take you there."

Spitfire's eyebrows shot up, and her muscles seemed to bunch up under her skin. Her demeanor had changed in an instant: from calm and collected to irked and riled. Max had sparked a potentially dangerous conflict. "Why? I'll be perfectly fine with Abrahamus. You can get the fuel you want—because honestly, I don't know anywhere else to go to get some—and I can get some supplies and rest. Otherwise, I am _not_ stepping a _foot_ closer to that pit."

"But you don't know what's changed," he said, saying his words slowly and clearly. Misconceptions would only cause more problems. "Maybe they're not actively hunting you, but that doesn't mean they aren't keeping an eye out. You want to risk being caught again?"

"You can't do anything in the Wasteland without risking something," she snapped back. "Long before I met you, I have evaded unpleasant people. I survive just fine and go on seeing the next day. I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were." He pointed a finger at her. "But you can be reckless. The scavengers, the building, the tunnels—those same mistakes can happen again. And if you plan to travel alone after a while, with _them_ around—"

"Why do you care?" she asked, cutting him off. She was calm again, and her eyes were filled with burning curiosity and mild wonderment, her furrowed brow only adding to the aura. It was as if her anger had vanished, consumed by whatever other emotions were roiling within her.

Max ignored that shift, though, replying, " _Trust_ isn't a singular thing. If you've got that from me, then it also means I _care_ what happens once this is over." He licked his lips and glanced away for a moment. He added: "Besides, I could ask you the same thing."

It took Spitfire a moment to comprehend what he meant; but, once she did, the tension finally leeched from her body. "The Plains of Silence?" she asked, not expecting an answer as she continued, saying, "I don't know. Maybe because it's clearly a suicide mission and I can't understand why you would want to do that to yourself." She waved a hand at him, then at his car. "You've come far. You've survived, and you know what it takes to _keep_ surviving. It's like your wired perfectly for that purpose—it's like the Wasteland made you. I don't understand why you want to give up that easily."

His thoughts withdrew, images of Jessie and Sprog and a handful of others he once knew and eventually lost. They were ghostly recollections, tainted by years of longing and grief.

Spitfire resumed, not catching his grimace or faraway gaze. "And you know what's even more miraculous? For coming so far, you're one of the kindest people I've met. _Kind!_ " She made a wild, flippant gesture toward him again. "Good people die out here first and foremost. But you haven't. Again, why would you want to throw that away?"

It was Max's turn to become stiff and coiled. "I'm not that good of a man," he rumbled, glancing at Spitfire from the corner of his eye.

She spread her hands. "Really? Well I doubt I'm that grand to earn a special treatment from you."

He shook his head. "I've killed many, hurt some, taken revenge. I've lost people who could've been saved if I had—"

 _Turn around, Max!_

 _Don't leave me!_

 _Don't let them take me!_

 _Why did you abandon us?_

All words dissipated in a long exhale. He struggled to keep his features neutral and his demeanor relaxed. Apparitions flickered at the edges of his vision, tempting him to look their way. He refused, knowing he would just submit to madness.

"You're right. I don't." Spitfire's voice was soft and barely above a whisper. He focused on her in order to avoid his own preying past. "And you don't know what I've lost or the people that I won't ever see again—whether because it was someone else's fault or my own." There was a thickness to her words—a sadness that Max rarely saw from Spitfire. It was unlike the hollowness she had displayed earlier, when she had seemed nothing more than an empty shell. This was raw and vulnerable—the opposite of Spitfire.

When he said nothing, she continued, "But I've kept going. I'm here, struggling every day, just like you. I haven't come this far just to throw it away." She stepped boldly forward and jabbed an accusing finger against his chest. "When we first met, you accused me of wanting to die like a dog. That's rather ironic, considering what _your_ plans are. And I don't appreciate it _one bit_. I didn't save your life just to later watch you disappear, knowing you're willingly driving toward death."

He glanced down at her hand, which slowly drooped until it returned to her side. He then drew a deep breath and said, "And I didn't save yours just to leave you somewhere and let that"—he pointed at her, too, implying her back—"begin again. I've left too many people to similar fates."

Her jaw clenched, and her eyes seemed to cloud over. "Like Jessie?" she murmured softly, though her words were like a roaring engine.

He felt callous for a moment, remembering the last time she had viciously used his wife's name. He had reacted violently at the time, harrowed by the nightmares and angered by her comment. Even now, he still felt that same grudging feeling, despite everything he and Spitfire had been through. He wanted to snap at her, to turn away, to drop the conversation and just drive somewhere. None of those urges turned to action, though.

Rather he ducked his head for a moment and closed his eyes. Jessie's face was plastered on his eyelids. He mumbled, "That was my wife." He lifted his gaze, meeting Spitfire's shocked, wide-eyed stare. "I lost her long ago—before the world completely fell into ruin. I didn't make it in time to save her…or my son."

She bit her lip, and lines creased her forehead. She still maintained eye contact. "I'm sorry," she said—softly, painfully. It was as if the revelation stung her, too.

He shook his head. "Don't," he said.

Conversation dissipated, and Max and Spitfire lapsed into silence alongside the Wasteland. Neither of them wanted to break the transparent wall that had been magically built between them. Each were at an impasse, troubled by the past that each held and not wanting to budge in their standing.

Max meant to step away—create some space for a few minutes before they resumed their journey. Of course, he was unclear upon where they would go, for he was still reluctant to keep driving toward the place that had marred Spitfire's life but had no other destination to reach. Perhaps he should not care, as Spitfire seemed to suggest; however, he could not convince himself to abandon her to some cruel fate. Not like Jessie and Sprog. Not like the others.

He had barely turned when Spitfire caught his bicep in a firm grip. He glanced down at her, subtly raising his eyebrows.

"I may not know how it feels to lose a spouse and kid, but I do know how it feels to lose a loved one." She removed her hand, fingers curling. "And I've hurt a lot of people. Intentionally, and for other people's amusement. I would never go back to that place ever again. If by some chance they found me, they would have to fight very hard to take me back—kill me, even." She sighed. "As for you, I just want you to think about what you're doing before you find yourself alone, in the middle of nowhere. There's no coming back from the Plains, Buddy. No second chances."

Max studied her for moment, contemplating, then nodded solemnly. He left, slipping down the slope to poke through the rest of the shack's supplies, although he knew he would find nothing. It was just an excuse to clear his head.

He half expected to hear Spitfire trailing after him; however, not even a ruffle could be heard behind him, and he walked alone.

* * *

Barely ten minutes had passed—sufficient time, Max supposed, since he had been about to return anyway—when he heard the rumble of an engine. He immediately left Gideon's shack and scrambled up the slope. He saw Spitfire perched on the trunk, ramrod-straight posture expressing her alertness. To the south, a plume of sand was drawing toward them—quickly.

Max went to Spitfire's side, squinting against the afternoon sun's rays.

"It's them," Spitfire spat, never taking her eyes away from the approaching vehicle. "They just couldn't leave it in the tunnels."

She clutched her dagger in her right hand, clearly determined to face the impending fight. Max frowned. "Don't know that." He began to move toward the driver's side door. "We should leave before they get here."

"No," Spitfire snapped. "They probably already saw us. And if it is them, then they're not gonna stop chasing us until one of us runs out of gas."

Max shook his head indignantly. "Don't be a fool."

She stared hard at him. "Then go without me."

"No."

"Then stay and watch my back."

Max grimly realized he was not going to convince Spitfire to leave easily and quietly (her recklessness overriding her instincts and good judgement again). Therefore, he went to the car door, ducked inside, and withdrew with two pistols, leaving his shotgun in the seat. His preferred weapon was low on ammunition—he had three shots left, he garnered. Returning to Spitfire, who had her feet on the ground now, he handed her one of the pistols. She gave him an appreciative nod.

Two minutes later, the vehicle—a _very_ familiar truck—rolled to a stop in front of them. A cold, steely feeling formed in Max's gut, and he stepped forward, trying to take the initiative and keep Spitfire back. She had already had bad qualms with the tunnel tribe, and they despised her just as much. If they were out for vengeance for their leader, he had no doubts that they would want to sink their teeth into her first.

Spitfire silently objected to his defensiveness, boldly stepping forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Max heard the wordless message: _I'm not helpless_. Just as she had stated earlier.

The driver's side door popped open, and an unfamiliar man hopped out. His stature was difficult to judge, for he wore an oversized, faded blue shirt enveloped by a large coat that reached past his knees. Any weapons he carried must have been hidden underneath his coat, for Max doubted the man would be foolish enough to approach two armed strangers in the Wasteland with nothing to defend himself. His black hair was jagged, obviously chopped by a knife to keep it as short as possible, and streaks of grey could be seen poking through. His complexion was grimy, as to be expected, but he smiled through the dirt, his chocolate eyes switching between Max and Spitfire. He took a long stride toward them, and, simultaneously, Max and Spitfire raised their pistols.

The man raised his hands and halted. "Whoa! Hold on a second—don't mean any harm, you two."

"The truck speaks otherwise," Spitfire growled, finger hovering over the trigger. The reason she had not already pulled it, Max figured, was that the man did not look like any of the tribe members. "What do ya want?"

"From you? Nothing." His smile was lopsided—easygoing. Max hardly felt relaxed. "But I suppose I owe ya'll a sincere thanks."

Max and Spitfire exchanged glances, both perplexed. Turning back, Spitfire asked, motioning her weapon toward the man, "For what? We know you?"

"Oh, no," the man said, waving a hand. "We've never met. I'm Dean, in case you're wondering. And I'm thanking you because you took care of those men back there. I arrived to find almost half the forces taken out. Less work for me, which is always a pleasure."

Max's eyes narrowed. "You follow us just to tell us that?"

His grin grew impossibly wider. "Of course not. You see, those men took my middle brother, and I was bent on getting him back—or getting revenge if he was dead, which he unfortunately was." He frowned briefly, and Max caught Spitfire bristling beside him. "But it turns out their forces were dwindled, and I was able to get away with my revenge quite easily. The reason why I'm standing here is because this is the way I go, and I just ended up stumbling upon you two. Since you recognize the truck, I figured you were the ones responsible for what happened back there." He cocked his head and gave Spitfire a sympathetic smile. "Seems it was an unpleasant victory, though."

Spitfire's upper lip twitched, and her fingers flexed on the pistol. "Don't concern yourself," she quipped. "Anything else you want, _Dean_?"

"Nothing at all." He shrugged his shoulders. "I would be, of course, willing to provide compensation for your coincidental help."

"Keep it," Spitfire said. "I'm sure you need it more than we do."

"Perhaps," he consented. Then dipping his head, he said, "I'll leave you two alone, then. Do be careful. These parts of the Wasteland are said to be…voracious. For just about anything."

Just as smoothly as he had entered, the man departed, leaping back into the truck and spinning around. He went more southwest this time, the dust billowing behind him.

Max lowered his arm, and Spitfire followed suit. She glowered. "You believe his story?"

"No," Max said.

"Neither do I. Let's get moving."

Max momentarily forgot their earlier discussion, retreating to his car with Spitfire. They claimed their respective seats, and Max started engine, driving away from Gideon's home. Max suggested they follow the ridge, and Spitfire gave an uncommitted sound, staring behind them with an unwavering gaze. For the next thirty minutes, Spitfire was never still. She was constantly twisting and searching, eyes flitting to every little detail she could catch. Max found himself in a similar state, though his focus was centered mostly on driving. At least the car was running properly. One less problem to be worried about.

After those tense minutes had lapsed, Spitfire reclined in her seat with an exasperated sigh. "Whoever he was, I don't see him anymore. He better be gone." She gazed out the windshield for a couple of minutes, contemplative. Then she asked, "You think he tracked us?"

"Find it hard to believe he found us by accident," Max said, jaw set. "About his brother, I don't know."

Spitfire nodded and folded her arms. "He went southwest. I say we follow the ridge as far as we can, then go south. Surely we'll lose him by a long shot, then."

"And the slavers? Thought they hunted near the ridge," Max pointed out.

"To be honest, Buddy," Spitfire said, looking toward the looming ridge beside them, "I don't know which way is safer. This trip was so much simpler when I first came through."

"Things change."

Time passed, and the sun sank lower. Spitfire rubbed her arms and scratched at the back of her shoulders, aimlessly looking about. Max adjusted his grip on the wheel and kept a steady pace, traveling west. No slavers appeared; neither did the strange man in the truck. The Wasteland was, as usual, desolate.

Eventually, Max spoke up, shattering the silence: "I appreciate you telling me what you did. Never had to."

Spitfire glanced at him, features drawn. "I regret it a little, I'll admit. I don't go around telling just anyone about what I did." She shook her head. "I'm not proud of what I did. I hope you know that."

Max nodded. "Couldn't imagine you doing it in the first place."

She huffed lightly. "I find _that_ difficult to believe. I don't exactly have a clean record."

"Everything you do, you do to survive. That's what we all do."

She nodded vaguely, swallowing.

Conversation lulled again, and watchful gazes returned to the horizon.

Finally, Spitfire said, "I _am_ sorry about your wife and kid."

Max grunted. He could not find the proper words to reply. Spitfire seemed to expect no better, for she kept the silence respectfully.

The sun hovered over the horizon, its bright rays making Max squint. The plains remained undisturbed, and the ridge continued stoically, raggedly cutting the Wasteland, like a serrated blade. The shadows grew long and wispy, and Max hated the illusions they created along the ridge. The effect played with his already exhausted mind, revealing haunted faces or dangerous foes.

As if tangibly feeling his struggle, Spitfire remarked, "You should rest. Ridge will provide cover, and nothing has turned up for a while. I'll keep watch."

Max felt an urge to argue—deny that he needed the rest or that this was the place to be closing his eyes. His body seized control of his speech, though, warning him to take up the offer or drop from utter exhaustion. He slowed, parked, and shut off the engine, inviting the Wasteland's emptiness inside the car. He sank into his seat and folded his arms across his chest. The pistol sat on his lap, poised for action.

"Not too long," he mumbled, sealing his eyes. Spitfire hummed beside him. Oblivion overtook him quickly.

* * *

Running through darkness. Hitting the walls, stumbling often, grasping someone beside him who faltered just as much as him. Thunder boomed behind him—wracked the walls and echoed in the emptiness. Never-ending. Senseless. Useless.

 _Max?_

 _Where are you, Max?_

 _Save us, too, Max!_

 _Why didn't you save us?_

Light. Orange, bright, blinding. Voices—screaming, crying, shouting, cursing, laughing. He had lost the person beside him. He stood alone—no, he was on the ground. Fumbling, fingers touching cool metal, hard earth digging into his back. Gunshots, ricocheting, shattering, crackling, cackling.

 _Max!_

 _Do something, Max!_

 _Why won't you stop this, Max?_

 _We trusted you!_

He rose. His vision was blurry. He saw a thousand moving shapes, with two dark figures standing still, watching him. He had a gun in his hand. He raised it. Voices taunted him.

 _Stop this!_

 _Stop this before it's too late!_

 _Max!_

 _Please!_

 _Why are you standing there?_

 _Do something!_

He shot. His head pounded. Cries of anguish entwined with the exploding gunshot. One of the figures stumbled. A hand grasped his own. Blood spread from palm to palm.

 _I trusted you._

Max opened his eyes, reality shattering the dream world and leaving it in broken, unrecognizable shards. He blinked rapidly, took unsteady breaths, and looked around wildly. He realized, after several panicky seconds, that Spitfire was not sitting beside him, and he nearly jolted into action. Fortunately, however, his eyes went to the windshield, where he found her laying languidly on the hood, staring up at the nighttime sky.

Max breathed a sigh, allowing his muscles to loosen and his adrenaline to wane. Then he stepped out of the car. Cold air greeted him, ghosting across his face and curling around his neck, sending shivers down his spine. The heat of the day had completely disappeared.

Spitfire caught the movement and glanced over at him. She made no move to get up. "Sleep well?" she asked, head resting in the crook of her arm.

He looked around, noting the pitch black sky scoured by pinprick stars. "It's late," he said.

She returned her gaze heavenward. "I thought you could use a few hours. Wouldn't hurt. I would've woken you if somethin' went wrong."

He grunted. Pointless to argue about the matter. Besides, despite the nightmare, he did feel rested—less anxious and jumpy.

She patted the space beside her. "Care to join?"

He leaned against his car, shoulder pressed into the frame. "Good here," he said, nodding his thanks. Spitfire just shrugged. After a couple of minutes, staring aimlessly at the endless expanse above, Max asked, "What're doing out here?"

Spitfire pursed her lips, pondering. Finally, she said with a lowly, "In the arena, I rarely saw nighttime. And if I did, it wasn't this…open. Forgot there were this many stars." She smirked, then, cracking her placid expression. "I like to enjoy it every once in a while. I never get tired of it."

Max stayed silent, bobbing his head absently. Once again, he was intrigued by the life Spitfire had had—before she had settled for wandering the Wasteland until good fortune came; long before they had partnered for this journey. He wondered how she endured the unpleasant memories that undoubtedly spawned. His losses—whether old or new, small or large—constantly clung to his back, becoming the heavy burden he could not shed. Spitfire, for the most part, acted as if tragedy could not touch her. He marveled at the façade.

"I have to ask," Spitfire began, snagging Max's attention, "what was the world like, before all of this?"

He raised his eyebrows mildly—taken aback, but not completely surprised. "Really?"

She shrugged, not bothering to look at him. She seemed to be too enthralled with the stars. "The Wasteland hasn't been your entire life. It's been mine, though. I've heard stories and seen pictures of the Old World, but I believe it would be more interesting to hear it from you."

Max studied Spitfire for a moment—still relaxed, reclined on the hood with legs bent and arms folded behind her head—then surveyed the Wasteland. He imagined what the empty, sand swept, blood-and-oil soaked plain would look like in the Old World. He wondered what it would have amounted to if disaster had not struck the world—how modernization would have shaped the land. Certainly a better scene than the one laid out before him, he assumed.

"It was better," he said, uncertain how to describe the life he used to live. Those pleasant years of youth had been buried beneath later years of hardship and turmoil. Half of what he remembered was tarnished in one way or form by the Wasteland's destructiveness. Perhaps he should describe it in a way that would be meaningful to Spitfire—something _she_ would imagine and appreciate. "There was water and food and plants. There was civilization—continents, countries, states, cities, towns. There was fuel and roads. There was order, and a lot of what happens now was looked down on."

"Still is, isn't it?" she asked, finally turning to him. The faint starlight cast a ghostly spotlight on her face, creating hollow shadows and putting a twinkle in her eyes. "Not everyone likes it. I don't, and I think you don't, either. We just know there aren't many other options left anymore."

Max shrugged half-heartedly. "Perhaps. But most stopped caring, and there isn't anyone or anything that can fix it." He met her eyes steadily. "What happened to you wouldn't have happened back then. Or not to those extents."

She only held his gaze a moment before closing her eyes and nestling her head comfortably in her arms. "I kinda doubt the Old World could've solved all those problems. Still, it would've been nice." She exhaled heavily. "Probably would've been a completely different person."

He mulled on that statement. Would his life had been utterly changed if the world had not fallen off the ledge and into chaos? "Probably," he murmured. He was unsure if the answer was directed to Spitfire or himself.

Spitfire hummed. "What about that building?"

Max fiddled with his jacket. "What 'bout it?"

"Were there more like it?"

He nearly chuckled, but the invisible cloud that seemed to loom over the conversation urged him to suppress the sound. "Plenty," he said.

"And I imagine they were supposed to be _upright_?"

He shook his head, an involuntary snort escaping. "Yes."

Spitfire sat straight, a coy smile barely visible in the faint light. "The Wasteland does work miracles, it seems. The ever-stoic Buddy actually _laughed_." She waved a flippant hand. "And here I thought I would never see the day."

Max gave her an unamused look. "Wasn't laughin'."

"I heard what I heard," Spitfire refuted proudly. "You can't convince me otherwise."

Max mentally waved away the (rightful) accusation. "Any other questions?"

She thought for a minute. "Depends," she said, scratching her cheek. "Would you be angry if I asked you?"

"Depends on the question," he replied, skeptical.

She pinched at her pant leg and toyed with a pocket that gave a soft jingle with the movement. Probably bullets, Max figured. "Would you be willing," she said, tantalizingly slow, "to stay at Abrahamus'?"

Max blinked, furrowing his brow. It took him several moments to gather his disbanded thoughts. "Stay?"

"Yeah," she said with a shrug. "Don't worry: You would still get the gas you want, but I'm offerin' for you to stay. Even if just for a day or two."

Max rocked back on his heels, leaving the support of his vehicle. "Why?" he asked.

Spitfire paused for several seconds, as if just now debating the reason. Finally, with an air of assurance, she explained: "Look, the Wasteland changes your perspective on everything. It's hardly good, either. Finding a place to stay or lay low—it makes a big difference." She waved a hand toward him. "It may not make a difference for you, but before you go drivin' into the Plains, I think you need a place to think it through. Get a new perspective. Abrahamus' territory is safe, and I trust the people well enough. They're strange, but…it's a place."

Max probably stared too long, Spitfire's words bouncing pointlessly in his subconscious. After a couple of moments, he turned away and shook his head. "Who said we were still going there?" he asked testily. "Besides, I thought that was where we parted ways?"

He saw her shifting from the corner of his eye. Her head bowed. "Whether you take me to Abrahamus or not doesn't matter. I'll walk there if I have to, and you can't stop me." She lifted her head. "As for the other, it still can be, but doesn't have to be. To be honest, the last thing I want is for you to leave, going straight toward the Plains. Whether you find something or not, I doubt I'll see you again."

"You probably won't see me again if I keep drivin' around the Wasteland."

"At least there's a better chance that you're alive." She clasped her hands. "I care what happens to you after this, too. Comes with the trust."

Max closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. When he exhaled, he said quietly, "You didn't want this to be personal. And me stayin'? That'll only make it harder."

She laughed softly. "Buddy, you made it hard the first night, when you saved my life from that scavenger. And the guilt just kept mounting ever since. I told you: There's something strangely good about you, and that's a rarity in the Wasteland. Makes you a magnet." She spread her hands in a 'can't be helped' gesture. "And you can't expect me to let you go after what you've told me. Most people don't tend to trust me or care what happens to me. It's been a long time since someone did—and I don't mean Abrahamus."

Max did not know what to say. It seemed only a short time ago that he and Spitfire had made an explicit point not to allow a bond to grow; yet, here they were, watching out for each other like a pair of old friends. He did not resent the partnership they had, but he dreaded where it would lead them in the end. All would be well until something irreversible happened. Max came to expect those inevitable outcomes.

"Most would take those things for granted," he said, giving her a sidelong glance. "Under the circumstances, most don't think about it."

"Yeah, well, I do." Spitfire slid off the hood. She walked over to Max, standing before him and straightening to her full height. "At least when it's relevant. And this is."

Max watched her for a while, studying her with a careful, wary eye. Some buried, bitter part of him expected trickery, but he saw none of the mischievous light that usually entered Spitfire's eyes when a wicked thought popped into her head. She was serious—sincere. She was offering him to join her for however long he wished; or, on the other hand, decline and move forward after he got his fuel. All he had to do was say one word: _yes_ , or _no_. Seemed much more complex than that, though. Much, much more.

 _I trusted you._ The nightmare briefly resurfaced. He pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the wrong figure.

Spitfire paid the price for that.

He looked away, suddenly unable to meet her eye. "I'll think on it," he mumbled. "We'll…head that way."

Spitfire nodded. Then, after an uncertain moment, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned back to her, actually surprised by the contact. She gave him a knowing, easy smile, but said nothing. She gave a light pat, then spun on her heel and strode toward her side of the car.

"You ready to get goin'?" she called.

Max sighed. He gave a short nod. "Mmhmm."

"Good." She opened her door. "If you don't mind, I need some shut eye myself."

He grunted. He would appreciate the silence, especially after what she had just told him. Spitfire accepted his response and settled into her seat. Max followed her into the car and started the engine. They had driven only a short distance before Spitfire's breathing lengthened and her whole body melted into the cushion.

Meanwhile, Max drove, letting his decision be tossed around inside his skull. He still had several days before Spitfire would want a definite answer. That was one relief. Still, he dreaded either route his choice would lead him. Both could lead to good fortune or utter destruction. Considering the Wasteland's cruelty and Max's past, the latter was more probable, and he did not want that—not again.

How could this have happened? A simple deal gone awry—a confrontation that should have ended on that little dune. No, that would have been worse. He probably would have run out of gas, and Spitfire would have drained whatever water she had. Maybe he would not have gotten to know or care about her and vice versa, but that quick ending would have been a poor one—for both of them. A waste of time and effort. Survival thrown to the biting wind, as Spitfire had berated him for wanting to do.

Max shook his head. Thoughts about the dilemma encouraged echoing whispers to fill his ears and cold fingers to claw at his subconscious, hoping to elicit painful memories or flashes. He needed to focus on driving. He needed to get where they were going—or _somewhere_ , at the very least. That gave him a goal. That gave him a reason not to think too much.

The sand and jagged rocks flew by his car, and he was content.

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **KatieBees:**_ I know! You guys are unraveling my secrets before I reveal them! I will have to throw in some more twists to keep you all on your toes... As for Max, he has some mixed emotions, as you can see above. Asher may not have done anything terrible to _him_ , but she has committed some crimes - can you call it crime in the Wasteland? - that she is not proud of. It puts Max in a difficult place. He is trying to see the good, though - for both his and Asher's sakes.

I do hope you got some answers from this Chapter about Asher. Also, keep in mind that there are still some unsaid things. Asher is lugging around a lot of history. Similar to Max, I suppose. Thank you for reviewing!

 ** _brandibuckeye:_** Thank you, and I hope some of that mystery about Asher has been solved! As I have said, there is still more to know, but the rest will come with time. Asher is not ready to reveal everything to Max yet (or to the readers either, apparently...).

 _ **minstorai:**_ Thanks! There are some situations that I ask, "Now what would Max do/say?" Otherwise, I believe I am becoming more comfortable writing in his perspective.

 ** _rachel101448:_** You're quite right on several points. Max is not going to pressure Asher about her past. He has his own that he is not entirely proud of, and he can understand wanting to keep such secrets hidden. Everyone has a story; and, in the Wasteland, most are not glamorous. Max understand that. But what Asher has revealed to him will certainly change his perspective. Even if they do trust each other - to their own extents - Max is going to be taken aback, and perhaps wary. And Asher herself certainly doesn't feel confident about sharing everything with Max yet. We will have to see where this all leads.

Is Gideon's son gone for good? Hmm...

Thank you for reviewing!

 _ **jkrfan7:**_ Thank you!

 _ **Crazy Redwood:**_ Asher certainly was not a willing fighter, as she said above. "Messed with the wrong people." This Chapter probably spawned more questions, but hopefully most of the big mysteries have been unveiled. And thank you - suspect more suspense! As for Max...I felt that is how he would view _trust_. Granted, it may be cruelly ironic, since he feels as though he betrayed several people by not fulfilling that definition, but...like I said, it just felt right.

 ** _cynthia:_** Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed the new update!

 _ **sool:**_ Thank you!


	13. Chapter 13: Stay

**Author's Note:** Welcome back, dear readers. I happy to give you all Chapter 13 - and in a timely manner, too. Thank you all for your patience and wonderful support, and I hope you enjoy the newest update!

As a side note, we are only a few chapters away from the end of part one of this story. Which means some major events are going to be playing out over the next few chapters. Be prepared...you have been warned. (Also, apparently Google Chrome does not believe _Asher_ is a correct word. That's harsh, Chrome.)

 ** _Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to._**

* * *

 **Chapter XIII:**

 **Stay**

" _Boldness is a mask of fear, however great." -John Dryden_

* * *

Asher sat in the back of the car, flipping around a canteen and listening to the slosh of the water inside. It was rhythmic to her ears now, like the rumble of the engine. Outside, a strong, harsh wind tore across the land and shoved the car, forcing Buddy to adjust often. She closed her eyes, listening to the cacophony.

She mumbled, voice gruff and dry, "Doesn't sound good." She twisted her torso around, looking lazily up at Buddy. "The wind. That rough usually means bad things."

Buddy grunted, scratching his bearded jaw. The scruffy hair seemed to have grown longer—or Asher's imagination was playing with her. "Comin' from the north. We'll keep an eye out."

"Too bad the ridge gave way. Would've been nice cover," she mused, tossing the canteen onto her discarded jacket.

After a couple of days of driving along the ridge, the rock crumbled to small boulders, urging Asher and Buddy to divert from their path and begin traveling southwest. Now, five days later, they were still ploughing across the land, kicking up sand and dirt.

Once, Asher made the offbeat comment that they were driving in circles and that Buddy had lost his touch; however, Buddy remained unfazed and shot back that the area was different—smoother and firmer under the tires, providing more track and letting him drive faster and easier. In other words, they were making good progress. Asher had accepted his judgement with a shrug. She could not tell the difference. She was no experienced driver.

"If we're close, then it won't matter." He jerked his head toward the passenger seat. "Should come back up here. Take a look."

"Mm," she hummed. "I doubt we're that close."

"This isn't like walkin'—said so yourself," he remarked. "Can't be too sure."

Asher sighed, lingered for a moment, then stiffly rose and crawled back into her seat. She gave Buddy a good shove as she did, signaling her irritation. Buddy, ever the stoic man, ignored the offense. Discouraged, Asher settled into her seat and leaned forward on her knees, scanning the golden plain with disinterest.

Suddenly, she popped up and smacked his shoulder. "Hey, you know what?"

He snapped to attention and eased up on the gas. "What?"

"That looks _exactly_ like that patch of sand I walked on while coming east. Like—see that dune next to that dune that looks like that third dune? Totally came this way."

The car hitched and the speedometer soared back to its high number. Buddy gave a grunt and shrugged off Asher's lingering hand. Asher herself snickered, flopping back into her seat.

"Think this is funny?" he groused, arching an eyebrow at her.

She grinned cheekily at him. "Oh, very much so. That look on your face was priceless. Could've sworn you saw an oasis out there, Buddy."

He made an incoherent grumbling sound, wrapping one hand around the apex of the wheel while propping his opposite arm on the door frame. "I wasn't joking," he said.

Asher drew a breath and righted herself in her seat. She lifted her leg and placed her right ankle on her opposite knee. The hilt of her dagger glinted in the sun, neglected for several days. She brushed a thumb over the pommel. "I know. The car's faster than me. But it doesn't feel right. Whether that's because we've gone way off course from _my_ path, I don't know, but I still don't feel it."

"All things considered," Buddy began, rubbing his chin, "your gut feelings tend to be crooked."

Her grin completely melted, replaced by a deadpan—playfully venomous—expression. "That's harsh, Buddy."

He shrugged, and Asher thought she caught a brief smirk. "Learned from the best."

"If we weren't traveling seventy miles-an-hour, I think I would punch you."

"You're welcome to try."

"Okay, you need to cut that crap out."

Buddy gave her a sideways glance. "What?"

She gestured at him, head-to-toe. "Your dual personality. This…lightheartedness of yours. Scarier than your shotgun." She lifted her chin and scanned his face. "Not as bad as your face, though."

"See, _that's_ unfair."

"Ha! Fair ended after you insulted my skills. _That_ was payback."

He hummed. "Very cheap."

"Excuse me?" she shot back, eyebrows skyrocketing on her forehead.

He glanced at her. "Your comeback. It's typical. Very low, very cheap."

She smacked him hard on the arm. "You're the worst. I miss the old Buddy. Can I have him back?"

He chuckled—actually laughed. It was a low, deep rumble in his chest that settled Asher's nerves and smoothed over the playful quarrel.

She looked out at the Wasteland, the roll of the gold dunes and the openness of the blue sky lulling her. She dared to say that she was content—perhaps, just for that moment, happy. How strange. When the journey west had begun, she believed joining Buddy was the grandest mistake of her entire life—perhaps even the reason she would die out here. Yet here she was, laughing and smiling with him as if they were close friends, living in a world without pain. It was surreal.

 _You let him get too close_ , the little voice hissed—a cold edge that sliced to her very core and ruined the joy. She closed her eyes and released a long breath. The last five days had been peaceful without the little voice intruding upon her thoughts. Even when she had told Buddy what her scars meant, the voice had been quiet and reserved. Asher had believed that, just maybe, it had dissipated—that she would never, ever hear it again. Yet here it was, slinking back into her subconscious, more biting than usual. She was foolish to believe she was free of it.

 _No, you're foolish to believe that this will work—that everything is_ fine _. You've seen this all happen before, yet it seems you didn't learn a thing. Just wait until that moment comes and your little friend isn't going to help you. He's going to turn his back on you—deceive you, just like—_

"Screw you," she muttered under her breath, glaring out the window.

"Hmm?" Buddy hummed beside her. Asher doubted he heard her exact words, considering his listless stare and relaxed posture.

"Nothing," she said at first, shrugging slightly. Then, after a moment, she mentioned, "I was just thinking about whether you made a decision yet."

"About?"

"About staying with me, at Abrahamus'." She turned to him. "Since we're getting closer, I kinda want to know sooner rather than later. Or are you going to leave me hangin'?"

He furrowed his brow slightly and pursed his lips. "Hard to answer. Don't even know what the place's like."

"It's a lot better than this." She gestured at their surrounding—both inside the vehicle and the never-ending Wasteland. "There are walls and decent people. Water. _Food_ , which is a whole lot better than what we have. I saw the face you made when we opened that one can."

He gave a mildly amused look. "Thought my face was too ugly to look at."

"I know, and that made it so much worse."

"Very, very low."

"Not the point." She let her head fall back against the headrest. "You can't tell me you don't want to just _stop_. You know, rest for once without worrying somethin's gonna happen. I mean, yeah, we watch each other's back out here, and I'm sure that helps—it does for me, honestly. But the danger doesn't disappear. You still worry about it."

Buddy shrugged a shoulder, thoughtful for a long time. When he spoke again, he surprised her by asking, "Why do you want me to stay?"

She gave him a quizzical look. "Told you: Because I thought you needed a place to settle down for a bit. Why do you think _I'm_ going there?" She licked her lips and glanced out the windshield. "It gets tiresome wandering around out there. It's nice to have a place to go for once."

Several minutes slowly ticked away until Asher, tired of waiting, returned her attention to Buddy. His features were tight and his grey eyes distant. An uneasy feeling wormed into her gut, and she closed her eyes briefly.

Then she said, almost regrettably, "Go on. Ask away."

He spared her one of his darting glances, then sighed softly. "What'd you do when you escaped?"

Did Asher care whether Buddy asked about her past? This particular question, no. It was quite innocent, actually; and since he seemed to accept what she had done without open resentment, she was willing to give him some leeway. If he did touch a difficult topic, she would ignore it or brush off the question. Considering Buddy's own past, she suspected he would understand.

"I ran," she said, plain and firm. "I ran, and I didn't look back. Not exactly smart, since I wasn't used to covering that much distance. I was used to short energy bursts—you know, when I fought. Running like that? I wasn't prepared, and I collapsed after a while."

She paused. He said nothing, but she sensed his silent encouragement to continue.

She did. "It's a long, complicated story after that—"

 _You betrayed him, he came after you. Simple. Why not tell your friend everything, since you're being so open? Would he still trust you to watch his back?_

"—and I traveled a lot—and more smartly, too. I've seen a lot of places and met a lot of people. Nothing impressionable until I found Abrahamus—"

 _You know, I'm surprised the old man had so much faith in you. He knew what you did, he knew what the marks on your back meant. He knew you killed innocent people mercilessly and backstabbed others to get to the top. That's how you survived, and you can't just deny your instinct. Go on, tell Buddy about that._

"—but I left it behind, because I couldn't stay still—"

 _Because you can't deny instinct. Why withhold the truth, Ash? I thought you two trusted each other._

Asher sighed, completely lost upon where she was directing the conversation. She was surprised she had not let some dark secret slip past her lips.

 _Why? Are you afraid he'll hate you?_

"Don't want to talk about it?" Buddy asked, dragging Asher away from the voice's wicked tantalizing. She was relieved to hear no accusation in his tone.

"Maybe not," she murmured.

He nodded. "All right."

The conversation should have been simple and easy. At least, she could have fabricated it to be simple and easy, avoiding the more difficult, harsher parts of her grueling journey. Those first days in the Wasteland had been dreadful and terrifying, for she had no idea how to survive in the nothingness beyond her cruel home. She had run, but she had no place to go. And nothing improved as time went on. Actually, everything seemed to worsen. The Wasteland had taught her a hard lesson upon how to endure its plains and people. It had gotten her this far, at least. Now everything was instinct.

 _This_ —the entirety of the Wasteland—was her home now.

A touch of smugness touched her subconscious, and she knew it was the little voice reveling in its own praise. It was not wrong that Asher lived on instinct; and that same instinct was not always pure and kind. But the worst parts of her were reserved for the people that deserved her hate. Buddy was not a part of the list—never truly had been, if Asher was being honest with herself. She had dealt with much worse than him. Her biting commentator would never understand that—or refused to understand.

 _Oh, I understand. I just don't think you do, Ash_ , it taunted, tone lilting and faint. Asher merely pushed it aside, watching the landscape fly past the window. Just let it talk, she told herself. It would give up eventually.

For the next couple of hours, Asher was blessed with silence.

* * *

Those two hours were quickly spent. Soon the flat plain was broken by two obstructions, appearing initially as dots on the horizon before morphing into a small building and a suspended road that had mostly crumbled into large chunks of concrete and asphalt.

"Highway," Buddy murmured, nodding at the collapsed structure.

Asher hummed and pursed her lips. She pointed at the building. "And that?" she asked.

"Gas station."

She quirked an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right? That place used to give away fuel?"

"You had to pay for it. Cash, or a card." Buddy shrugged. "But yes."

"Huh." She studied the fast-approaching station. "World used to be pretty nice, after all."

Buddy parked the car under the awning—a cool, shaded spot with a tragically scenic view of the broken highway. An epitome of a broken world.

Asher grabbed a pistol from the back and stepped out of the car, tucking aforementioned gun in the waistband of her pants. She also had her dagger wedged in her boot.

As Buddy exited the vehicle, Asher studied one of the four pumps, chuckling to herself at the idea that gas could be bought—cash or card, Buddy had said. No trading water or food or lives. People had it easy in the Old World.

"Might be somethin' inside," Buddy said, and Asher turned around to watch him sidle toward the main building. She trailed after him, hand lingering on her pistol as she studied the tawny exterior and shattered windows. The front door had once been glass, but it had been smashed long ago, too. Stuck on one of the shards was a piece of paper with crude, red writing, saying, "Sorry, we're CLOSED."

"Think anyone's been here recently?" she asked offhandedly, taking down the paper.

Buddy was already several steps inside, and he scanned the disorderly interior. He gave a light shrug, his features carefully neutral. "Maybe." He glanced at her. "Keep an eye out."

"Got it."

She crumbled the paper and dropped it on the doorstep. Inside the station it was warm and stuffy, and dust visibly floated through the air, highlighted by shafts of sunlight. To the left was a counter, the other side blocked from view by a metal shutter. The rest of the space was cluttered with shelves, racks, and freezers that were, in turn, littered with empty boxes, cartons, and cans. In the far right corner was door labeled _Restrooms_.

Asher walked over to one of the freezers, gazing at the sign on top, listing frozen treats. She smiled faintly. "Would've been nice," she murmured to herself. As expected, however, the freezer was empty—probably had been for years.

She poked through the shelves and searched through the boxes and cans. Everything was emptied—scavenged and looted. Nothing worthwhile was left.

 _What's behind the counter?_

She gritted her teeth, not ready to hear the little voice again. However, its suggestion was sensible, and Asher found herself turning toward the shuttered counter. She strode over to it and tapped the metal. She could not get her fingers underneath.

 _Your dagger can._

Her gut twisted, but she listened and unsheathed her dagger. She wedged the blade underneath the shutter and wriggled it around. The metal only rattled. Testily, she levered the blade; however, her dagger was not a crowbar, and she feared her weapon would snap. Hence, she yanked the blade free and took a step back. She was about to shout to Buddy and get his help, but the shutters suddenly shook and lifted.

A man stood on the other side, and he smiled graciously. "Can I help you, sweetheart?"

Her heart skipped in surprised, but instinct readily seized control and she reached for her pistol. She had gotten a good grip when the man brandished a gun of his own—a shotgun not unlike the one Buddy had. Asher had seen the damage Buddy had done with his sawn-off; she did not want to be the victim of that gory weapon. Every muscle in her body froze.

A third gun clicked behind her, but the taut expression the man gave told Asher that the gun belonged to Buddy. Some tension leeched out of her body, and she found herself inching backward.

The man lifted the gun higher. "Ah, ah, ah. Don't move."

"You shoot me, he shoots you," Asher snapped, nodding over her shoulder toward Buddy—wherever he stood.

"I don't doubt that," the man said. "But he won't shoot me if I have a gun pointed at you. So I prefer to keep my bargaining chip close. Nothing personal, sweetheart, I assure you." His eyes—icy blue and inhumanly sharp—darted away from her. "You, too, half-tank. Don't appreciate the close proximity."

Asher chanced a glance behind her. Buddy was barely a foot away, enclosed by two shelves. He held his pistol aloft while his own shotgun hung tensely at his side. Then something struck her about the man's words.

She turned back to him. "'Half-tank'?" she repeated, baffled.

His lopsided smile slid back into place. "Your friend's a big man. My friend's a _tank_."

It took a couple of seconds for that statement to process. When it did, she had less than a second to judge her next move and take action. She so much as shifted her weight, she could have a bullet in her stomach. She stayed still, Buddy would probably face dire consequences.

 _Decisions, decisions. I think it's about time you questioned your loyalties. It's either you or him. Don't be foolish, Ash._

A can skittered across the linoleum floor from the aisle right beside Buddy. In that instant, Asher made her decision.

She spun and reached behind her, latching onto Buddy's extended arm and pulling him toward her. He stumbled into her, taken aback and accidentally pulling the trigger. The bullet stuck the floor, barely a centimeter away from her foot. Asher hardly cared, though, as she watched the shelving Buddy had been standing between crash together. Off to the side, Asher caught a glimpse of a tall, thickly muscled man. Asher understood now: This friend was easily twice Buddy's size, both in height and strength. He _was_ a tank.

The first man skidded over the countertop, clapping his hand against his wrist. "Bravo. Very impressive. Quick and smart—I like that."

Asher felt no more hesitation. She freed her pistol and pointed squarely at the man's forehead. He merely raised his eyebrows and kept smiling.

"You shoot me, my friend charges you," he mocked. "And trust me, that is quite unpleasant. Many broken bones."

Buddy had regained his composure, and he straightened to his full height and hefted his shotgun this time, aiming toward the tank.

Asher would have opted for a clean escape—she did not like the opposition and its firepower—but the two men blocked the only viable exits: the door and the two broken windows. Perhaps she and Buddy could negotiate.

 _You made one foolish choice. Don't waste your breath with another._

Asher harshly bit the inside of her cheek, then cleared her throat. "Didn't know anyone was here," she said slowly. "We're not here to cause trouble."

"And neither do we, sweetheart."

"That stunt of yours proves otherwise."

He paused for a second, studying her, then continued, "Sorry, Titan here tends to be brash. Didn't mean nothin' by it, sweetheart."

"Best you stop callin' me that," Asher snapped, tired of hearing the coyly sweet word.

He gave a half-smile. "All right. What would you prefer?" The sneer and sarcasm in his tone was unmistakable.

Asher could not keep the biting edge from her tone. "Nothin'. Names aren't important. Just wanna walk out of here happy."

"Excellent! We can come to an agreement then. But there's somethin' you've got to understand here." He shifted his weight to one foot and leaned against one of the upright shelves. He seemed indifferent to the gun pointed at his head. So did the tank, who stared blankly at Buddy's shotgun.

As if reading her mind, the man suggested, "Now, why don't you two lowered your weapons for a moment so we can have a civilized conversation. Yeah?"

Asher did not want to—actually, she nearly laughed in his face and outright refused. But her arm felt heavy, and she fought to keep the pistol perfectly leveled with the man's head. He hardly seemed threatened, either. Therefore, she cautiously lowered her pistol. Buddy did not budge initially, but after a handful of seconds, his shotgun disappeared from her peripheral view.

The man made a loose gesture. "See? Smart, like I said. Now, as I was saying," he continued, nudging absently at an empty carton at his feet, "you need to understand a few things about our predicament."

"Like what?" Asher asked, eyes narrowed.

"Like this is a lonely road. People don't drive by like they used to. At least, not simple folk like yourself. It's mostly pesky groups with nothing better to do than terrorize us. So, as you can imagine, that makes livin' here hard, but we have nowhere else to go." He made a sweeping gesture toward his surroundings. "We don't have much, and before long, we won't have nothin'. Get where I'm goin'?"

"You want a trade?" Buddy groused. His dry, rough voice startled Asher, since he had been broodingly quiet during the whole ordeal.

"And the half-tank speaks!" the man exclaimed, as if genuinely joyful. Asher resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He proceeded, saying, "That's correct. You give us something, and we'll let you go. I think everyone will be happy with that."

Asher exchanged a glance with Buddy. The distrust gleaming in his grey eyes created a knot in Asher's gut. Nothing about these people seemed normal, let alone good. The sooner she and Buddy got out, the better.

"Yeah, well, we don't have much, either," Asher said, looking back to the strange pair. "Not much to go around in the Wasteland."

"Understandable." The man shrugged. "But unfortunately, we can't let either of you leave until you provide somethin'. We're open for negotiation, if you would like to entertain us."

Asher sighed and shifted her weight. She thought for a moment, reviewing the supplies in the car. A canteen of water—that certainly could not be spared. Two cans of unlabeled food—there was an option. Ammunition, a shotgun, a dagger, and three pistols—she did not like the idea of sacrificing weapons, but there was more flexibility with those. Finally, the pouch of poison—for some reason, Asher doubted that would mean much to them.

"We can offer food, and maybe a gun or two." She cut a glance at Buddy, who gave her a minute nod of agreement. "That's it."

The man nodded, feigning thoughtfulness. "No water?"

"Too precious," Asher said. She tapped the pistol's barrel against her thigh. "How's that?"

He scratched his chin, then turned to look at his friend. The tank did not even blink. The man faced Asher and Buddy again, shrugging haplessly. "Kinda scant, don't you think?"

"Seems good enough to me," Asher said, nearly snarling. "Especially if you don't get much else, otherwise."

"True, but it's not like you two can do _much_ without gettin' hurt—and we both know that's dangerous in the Wasteland."

"Too bad," Asher remarked, defiant. "Ain't got nothin' else to offer."

He tilted his head and looked her up and down rakishly. "Sure 'bout that, _sweetheart_?"

Asher bristled, her upper lip twitching at the insinuation. An unkind retort nearly left her lips, but Buddy cut her off, edging forward and rumbling, "We're not offerin' anything else."

"Then I guess we're at a disagreement." The man studied the barrel of his shotgun. "And I don't plan on standin' around all day, staring holes into each other's skulls."

Suddenly everyone was in motion. The man pointed his shotgun at Buddy; Asher aimed at the man; the tank stomped forward, fists clenched; and Buddy lifted both pistol and shotgun, the former pointed at the man and the latter at the tank. They were seconds away from unleashing the chaos Asher had wanted to avoid. She and Buddy may be able to hurt or even kill the two men, but not without sustaining injuries themselves. And as much as Asher hated to admit it, the sly man was right: Wounds in the Wasteland hardly ended well. She and Buddy both had been lucky once; she doubted that luck would return any time soon.

The man was starting to apply pressure to the trigger when Asher decided to interject—perhaps regrettably.

"Wait."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Hmm?"

"You want the water, fine. It's all yours."

"That's very kind of you," he drawled. "But there's something else I want. Do you know what that is?"

 _You._

She took a breath. Her heart hammered against her sternum, threatening to burst out of her chest. She could feel disapproval radiating from Buddy, and she could have sworn he shifted closer. As if he could stop this. As if he could stop _her_. Did he not know this was the key to surviving?

"We agree to your terms," she began, speaking each word carefully, "you'll let us go our way?"

"I'm a man of my word," he replied smoothly, easing his trigger finger. "Are you saying we have a deal?"

"No," Buddy growled.

"Yeah," Asher said, simultaneously.

The man blinked, grinning faintly. "I'm sorry, that wasn't clear. Do we have a deal or not?"

Asher gave Buddy a pointed look, which he returned with twice the intensity. His eyes seemed to pin her, daring her to say 'yes' to the unpleasant proposition. He did not know what she had in mind, and she had no way to communicate her plan without ruining everything. She hated to leave him in the dark, especially about this particular matter. She had no other option, though. He would have to trust her.

"We have a deal," she said, her eyes not leaving Buddy's.

"Very good!" the man replied, grinning more confidently now. He thought he won. "If that's the case, then I believe weapons can be lowered and tossed to the side."

Buddy did not flinch. His weapons were still raised, though now trained on the one man. The cold, stony glare in his eyes was unsettling, even to Asher. She grabbed his pistol arm and yanked it down.

"Just do it," she whispered harshly.

"You don't know what you're doing," he shot back, just as vehemently.

"I'm getting us out of here alive," she said. "Trust me. You do, don't you?"

"That's different," he retorted.

"Do you trust me?" she repeated, sharper.

Asher thought he would never move; however, just as an impatient sigh left the other man's lips, Buddy lowered his shotgun and tore his other arm away from her grip. He tossed the guns toward the counter. Asher exhaled slowly, then followed suit, relieving herself of pistol and dagger. Surprisingly, the man had the curtesy to set aside his own gun, placing it on a shelf. He beckoned to Asher, almost coyly.

"Come on, then. Don't be shy. I'm sure your half-tank can get the rest of the stuff together, yeah?" He cast a venomous glance at Buddy, as if daring him to intervene. Asher could feel his anger, but he did not lash out. She did not know whether that was good or bad.

Asher patted Buddy's shoulder, hoping to send reassurance—though for him or herself, she was not quite sure. She approached the man, stopping a foot away from him. He studied her a moment, then motioned toward her.

"Jacket off. Don't want you hiding weapons in there," he said, voice irately pleasant.

With a huff, she shrugged off the garment and tossed it to the ground. She spread her arms to the side, showing her lack of weapons. He gave her a smirk, but his eyes showed no humor. His hand suddenly shot forward, gripping her bicep.

She hoped Buddy's instincts resonated with hers—that he moved in time with her. Otherwise, they were both going to die. Or maybe something worse.

Now or never.

Win or die.

Her free hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder, followed by her knee driving between his legs. He groaned and keeled over, his hand falling from her arm. Asher promptly sent her fist flying, her knuckles meeting his cheekbone in a satisfying _crunch_. He toppled with a short cry, desperately trying to scrabble away while bobbling amongst pain. Asher's pumping adrenaline urged her to continue the onslaught, but a large hand curled around her throat and forced her to the floor.

Her breath escaped her lungs—not good, especially since her windpipe had been closed off.

She stared up into the face of the tank. His features were like stone, his muscles like reinforced steel, and his tendons like thick cables. He would have been a challenge in the arena. A champion among champions. Maybe _the_ champion. That required a titanium heart, though.

A thunderous clap bounced around the station, and blood sprinkled down on Asher. The hand disappeared from her throat, and she rolled to her side, gasping for fresh oxygen. She glanced over her shoulder at the tank and saw his bullet-ravaged shoulder, gushing blood. Amazingly, the tank did not cry or shout or scream. Just grimaced and tenderly grasped at the wound. Unshakeable. Almost scarier than a hardened heart. _Almost_.

Another hand hooked under her arm and hauled her back to her feet. She turned to see it was Buddy, smoking shotgun in his hand. He may not have been in tune with her instincts, but his own were reliable enough.

His lips moved, but she did not catch his words. Her attention was drawn to the flash of silver on her right. She looked in time to see the man drawing a pistol and taking aim at them. He was still writhing in pain, but his icy gaze was focused and filled with vengeance. Not defeated yet.

Asher could not discern whether the barrel was pointed at Buddy or her, but she did not let that deter her. She shoved Buddy backward, made him trip and fall, but that was better than receiving the bullet that sank into her thigh.

She did not feel pain. Just the _thump_ of the bullet's entry and a kindling fire that began in his thigh and languidly spread throughout her body. Her leg gave out and she tumbled to the ground, but she still felt nothing. Nothing but fire. Had she been shot or had she been burned? She touched her thigh and found the bullet hole—small but ragged. When she pulled her hand back, it was drenched in blood—her blood.

She did not cry or shout or scream. Just grimaced. What did that make her?

Apparently the world had paused, for a tidal of sound and motion suddenly crashed around her. The feedback from the pistol, the man fiddling with his gun, the incoherent words from Buddy, the boom of a shotgun, the man flopping lifelessly to the floor with a fresh gut-shot. She heard the tank growling behind her and the solid thump of his footsteps. She saw Buddy reaching for another gun, because his shotgun was useless now, the infinite bullets finally spent. She saw her glinting dagger a few inches from her hand.

Now or never.

Win or die.

She grabbed the hilt with her bloody hand. She pivoted on her good knee. The tank was a foot away, his eyes focused on Buddy and not the bleeding, dagger-wielding woman at his feet. Too bad for him.

She swung the dagger, her other hand coming up to cup the pommel. With her remaining strength, she buried the dagger to the hilt in the tank's abdomen. He staggered and fell to the floor with her. He met her gaze, and she felt old memories creeping into her mind.

She betrayed him. He was trying to kill her. So she killed him first. Dagger in the gut, just like now.

But the tank was not dead, and her actions only fueled his anger. He jammed his thumb into her bullet wound, twisting and burrowing. The pain finally ignited, but she did not cry or shout or scream. Just grimaced. What did that make her?

The tank bunched her hair and slammed her head into the linoleum floor. Her hands finally slipped from the dagger. Her body finally collapsed. Her blood in her mouth. His blood pooling underneath them, mingling with hers.

Still, she did not cry or shout or scream. She did not grimace, just stared listlessly forward. _What did that make her?_

A shadow leapt into her blurred vision, morphing with the tank. The hands left and a muffled struggle reached her ringing ears. She blearily watched as the two indistinguishable forms twisted and jerked. She tried to move—to get up and help. But her body did nothing. It had shut down.

Her eyes landed on the dead man across from her. She half-expected him to leap to his feet with another secret weapon and finish her and Buddy. The Wasteland was unpredictably cruel in that way. Its intent was to crush a person—ground them into dust.

That was what the endless plains of sand was: Thousands of people who have been beaten by the Wasteland, having suffered beneath its heel for far too long. She felt that way right now, her energy draining as her pulsing blood spurted from her wound. She should be trying to staunch the flow, but her arms were heavy and cumbersome. Her head, too. She wanted to look back at the ensuing struggle, but she could not budge. She was exhausted.

She needed rest.

 _You close your eyes, Ash, and it's all over. Do you want that?_

It again. Why would it never leave her alone? Was the physical pain not enough? If she closed her eyes and defied it, then perhaps it would sulk into the farthest reaches of her subconscious.

 _Ash, no—_

She closed her eyes.

Only for two seconds, though. Then a pair of hands grasped her shoulders and shook her body roughly.

" _Hey_."

Her eyes cracked open, and Buddy filled her vision. His face was splattered with blood. His shirt front was smeared crimson. His arms were coated in death. Deliriously, Asher thought that the gore belonged to him. He was dying, too.

Why had Asher not suspected the man of having an extra gun? Why had she not taken her chance at a shootout? Why had she and Buddy even _stepped_ into this forsaken gas station?

"Stay awake. Stay with me."

Buddy muttered those words like a prayer, soft and repeating. His hands left her shoulders and she lost track of them. She relied on his words. _Stay awake, stay with me, stay awake, stay with me, staystaystaystaystay._ The latter never left his lips, but the phrases were becoming monotonous. Asher could only keep track of that one word.

Ironic. He never said he would _stay_ with her at Abrahamus' fortress. So why should she stay?

 _Because you'll die, Ash_ , the voice whispered. _You can't die yet._

Pain erupted again, fresh and hot. She cried and shouted and screamed. Her leaden arms rose, light as feathers now, and snatched at the hands working around her throbbing wound. Buddy was doing something—she heard the mantra; it had to be him—and it only brought more agony than relief. But Buddy batted away her hands and swiveled his body around, lying sideways across her stomach and using his back as a barrier. She resorted to clawing at his back and hair, hoping she was hurting him as much as he was hurting her. If they were dying together, they were going to suffer together.

He pulled away after a long, excruciating minute. Her hands loosened and fell, and he grabbed one and gripped it tight. His hand was sticky with blood. So was hers. She was lying in blood. He was kneeling in it.

 _Staystaystaystaystay_. That word again. The one anchor that kept her rooted in reality, no matter how fuzzy and painful. Not because she wanted to _stay awake_ —sleep was incredibly appealing, and the mantra was a makeshift lullaby. No, it was the _stay with me_ part. Reversed. Her telling him. _Stay with me when we reach Abrahamus_ , or, _Stay with me and forget about the Plains of Silence_.

 _Stay with me because I need you_.

 _Stay with me because you're the only person I've got._

 _Just—_

"Stay," she breathed, eyelids fluttering, mind shutting down.

The grip on her hand became a vice. "I'm not leaving you."

Semiconsciously, she wondered if she should say one more thing. Should she tell him her name? Should she tell him to leave and find Abrahamus? Should she tell him he was a good man after all? Should she tell him thanks for getting her this far?

Too much thinking, not enough action. She drifted into oblivion, pain seeping away and reality crashing down.

Her last memory was his hand slipping from hers.

 _Just stay._

* * *

 **To the Reviewers:**

 _ **Splendiferous7:**_ Asher and Max have their heart-to-heart moments; but never for long! Back to the action in this Chapter, as well as a (necessary but dreaded) cliffhanger. Thank you very much for your review, and I hoped you enjoyed Chapter 13!

 _ **bambino01:**_ Thanks! But now I must find a way to top it, haha!

 _ **KatieBees:**_ Thank you. As always, I appreciate your review and feedback! Now as for answers: For Asher, you will soon discover more about her and the grittier details of her past. It is catching up to Asher, whether she realizes it or not. As I said, the next few Chapters will be dynamic, and Asher's story will be unraveled. Be prepared!

As for Max: Initially, he was concerned, but also a bit in denial. He was shocked to see what Asher's scars meant, but he did not want to jump to negative conclusions. He has already dealt with people who have betrayed him; and, after everything he has been through with Asher, he did not want to believe that history was repeating itself. Also, Asher gave him a vague description of her life in the arena. She gave him a basic - but honest - perspective of her past, and Max understands she could not prevent what happened. It's the details that may strike Max the hardest. Asher has kept those to herself for a reason.

And yes, Dean... There is certainly more to him than what we saw last Chapter. Is he friend or foe? That, too, you soon shall see. But thank you again for the review, and I hope you liked Chapter 13!

 _ **brandibuckeye:**_ I know, I am sorry about that wait! This one had better timing, thankfully. I'm glad you are enjoying the story thus far! You haven't heard the last of Asher's past, though...

 ** _Erin:_** Thank you, and I'm glad you like the story! I hope you enjoy the update!


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